SpecForce Marines: Breakthrough
by Coota
Summary: This tells the story of the grunts of the Rebel Alliance, the SpecForce Marines. The story uses very few major characters, and is mostly a portrait of soldiers during wartime. Please R&R.
1. Another Briefing, Another Mission

Chapter 1  
  
The Colonel stretched back in his seat, taking in the sounds of the briefing room. A cigarra clutched between his fingers gave off a slow curl of smoke; in any other military gathering, he would have been reprimanded immediately. Here, it was just ignored: this military force valued its freedom more than anything, which gave way to some lapses in protocol. Not that the Colonel was exactly a rule-breaker; he just didn't see the point of denying himself this pleasure, especially when he was about to be ordered off on a suicide mission. Not that they had told him that this was going to be a suicide mission; in fact, he didn't know anything except that there was most likely going to be some orders handed out in the next hour. He just had a strong feeling that they weren't calling this many unit commanders together for their good health.  
  
The Colonel was a pitch black Mon Calamari, mottled by the occasional white spot. His uniform was white, but not that of the fleet; a patch on the shoulder signified him as a Rebel Alliance SpecForce Marine. His eyes were the usual red of his species, large, seemingly independent of each other. Other than that, he did not seem to be exactly typical of his species. He just carried a different aura around him than other Mon Cal, something decidedly... unsettling. Nothing overt, he just seemed different to any casual observer. Of course, that impression might just have been conveyed by the cigarra held between his webbed fingers.  
  
Over a hundred beings were crowded inside the briefing room, talking loudly, reminiscing, pondering why they'd been summoned here. The Colonel was somewhat curious about that himself, but did not think it was worth worrying about. He knew that he would find out soon enough, so what was the point? Everything eventually got explained in SpecForce, even if the explanation was a little delayed sometimes. That was the one certainty he carried with him these days, that there was an explanation for everything, even the least logical things. Of course, logic was in short supply these days, but that didn't bother him either. It was just to be expected.  
  
Despite his own resolve to not worry about it, the summons had piqued his interest. That interest had almost doubled as soon as he had arrived at the base, and discovered that a large amount of high-ranking personnel had been called in for this little meeting. Even though it was not a certainty, there was at least a high probability that a major campaign was about to be implemented. The only problem with that was that the Colonel had planned to go on living for a few more years; major campaigns in the Alliance normally signified a shortened life span for all involved. That was why they never started them: the Alliance was a guerilla operation, not a conquering army. Only conquering armies could afford to commit men to extended campaigns. If the Alliance did not focus itself on quick strikes, and instead got in a slugging match with its enemies, then they were as good as dead. That was the first thing they taught at Officer Candidacy School; you get into a slugging match with a superior force, you die. It seemed that someone had forgotten that.  
  
The room was filled with beings from every branch of the Alliance Military, along with some non-military personnel who would come in handy during a major operation; Fleet Command, Starfighter Command, SpecForce Command, Supply Command and Alliance Intelligence were all represented in force. What seemed odd, though, was the amount of Sector Force personnel here; men and women who did not serve under the Alliance Command structure, but rather cooperated with it when it suited their needs. They were, after all, more concerned with their home, their area of space, than they were with the Alliance as a whole. They of course supported the Alliance, but only as an afterthought. A unified force working to bring down an evil empire was a nice dream, but a secondary concern, next to the families and homes of these SecForces. They were almost a paradox; though they were not wholeheartedly given to this unified force, they functioned as the backbone of the Alliance. They were the ones who fielded 90% of the Alliance's ground troops and starfighter corps. Of course, they were low quality compared to Starfighter Command and the Colonel's own SpecForces, but quantity was sometimes more of a concern. Especially when fighting a drawn out campaign, the Colonel thought.  
  
The Colonel even recognized a few of the beings gathered, either friends, or people he had worked with from time to time. But he did not get up from his seat to greet them. There would be time for that later; he was more concerned with finishing his cigarra before the briefing began. He guessed this was one of the reasons he had a reputation for being somewhat cold; his unwillingness to mingle, to participate in the bonding that often went on in military commands. His face tightened up in a close approximation of a human smile as he thought about that. The Colonel wasn't really cold per se, and would be happy to talk to his friends again; it'd been months since he had last seen them, after all, but there was a time and a place for everything. These last few minutes before being given his orders were the time and the place for the savoring of this cigarra.   
His eyes rolled freely, examining all the new faces, and the occasional old one. An acknowledgement came his way from time to time, but none of the beings that knew him went any farther than that; they knew that he valued times like this. They figured it must have something to do with his species' culture, this strange detachment which rolled over him from time to time. Mon Calamari did have a reputation for aloofness, even mixed with their compassion, but the Colonel knew this had very little to do with what his species. Rather, it was what he had molded himself into over the years. He smiled inwardly at that, taking a last pull from his cigarra before he let it drop into a nearby waste chute. The Mon Calamari was sure that it was nearly time...  
  
The Colonel was confirmed in his estimation by a call to attention from the sergeant standing at the entrance to the briefing room. The entire room immediately quieted and snapped from their seats into a standing position of total attention. If any civilian observer had been paying attention, they would have been amazed that the Colonel could have gone from a position of total relaxation to attention in one fluid motion. It was just something that one picked up over the years, if one was a professional soldier. Colonel Trell Jorser, of the Rebel Alliance SpecForce Marines, prided himself in being just that: a professional soldier.   
A small group of males and females of various races and professions entered the room, all of them of the highest rank. General Madine, Vice Admiral Ackbar... this operation, whatever it was, was coming down directly from Alliance High Command, the Colonel was sure of it. The fact that they had been summoned aboard Fleet's command ship for this briefing had been a hint in that direction; this merely confirmed it. The males and females who made up this assemblage moved into the center of the circular room, where a holoprojector and other briefing tools were situated. After a few moments, most of these High Command officers had seated themselves at the very front rows of the room; only the Mon Calamari Ackbar remained at the center. Jorser knew that this would not last; the admiral would switch off with the other officers as the talk went into their various areas of expertise. Ackbar turned to the officers and called "At ease." His raspy voice was obviously electronically amplified, but was not uncomfortably loud. The entire assemblage of soldiers immediately sat down and readied themselves for a long briefing.   
  
"I'm glad to see most of you made it here; we realize that this call came at short notice, and that many of you were pulled out of other mission planning stages, or away from well deserved leaves. Still, this could not be helped," began the Admiral, surveying the officers.  
  
He continued, "Recently it has come to our attention that an Imperial colonel has gone rogue and taken his command with him. He sent us a transmission that signaled his intent to defect, but his corvette was cornered in the depths of Wild Space. He crashed his ship on the planet, and has been hiding in the depths of the jungle. We believe he has gone native. This would normally be of minimum concern to us, and would certainly not warrant gathering you all here. However, his transmission before the crash has brought our interest to this system."  
  
The Admiral keyed the holo-projector, producing a huge rotating map of a sprawling solar system. One star stood at the center, with over 26 planets of various sizes rotating it. Each planet had captured anywhere from one to a half dozen moons. An asteroid belt cut through the system at about the midway point, just after the fourteenth planet. Jorser checked his datapad and saw that more specific information about each planet had been transmitted to him; the same seemed to have occurred for all the other officers in the room. Various other small dots could be seen among the planets, but Ackbar ignored them for now; the Colonel assumed they were starships, most likely Imperial.  
  
"Apparently, the system is huge, with several habitable planets and moons, an asteroid belt, and various other interesting points; with the jungle planet that this Colonel crashed on near the center of the system. What is more important is that there were already Imperials there. And several corporate interests, all exploiting the native population found on the jungle world, and pulling vast quantities of minerals from every planet in the system. Important minerals. Gentlebeings, the Alliance has just inadvertently been given the location of one of the most valuable systems in the galaxy, which has apparently just recently been tapped by these corporate concerns and the Galactic Empire. We cannot exploit this system to its full potential: it's too valuable to the Empire; if we attempted to push them out, they would crush us. Rather, we must merely make it costly for the Empire to exploit this system, make them pay for every milligram of ore pulled from it. We are going to send in a fleet, drop a force at the edge of the system, then jump out. They'll establish a foothold, then summon in the fleet again; we move the bulk of our forces to the next planet, and continue to leap until we reach the center of the system. This, of course, will be less simple than it sounds. General Cracken will apprise you of what we're up against," the Admiral finished, gesturing to an older man whose hair had already begun to gray along the side burns.  
  
General Cracken stepped forward and keyed a button his datapad, focusing the holo-projector on one formation of red dots, somewhere near the center of the system. A collective gasp seemed to issue from the viewers; Trell Jorser just chuckled, finding the image amazingly funny for some reason. Not that many would find a Super Star Destroyer very funny in normal circumstances, but Trell Jorser had been finding a great deal of things funny lately.  
  
"As most of you know, this is an Imperial Super Star Destroyer. One of twelve massive battle cruisers, most likely under the command of a Grand Admiral, though not certainly. It is at the center of a fleet of over a fifty smaller craft, including, but not limited to, five Star Destroyers of varying calibers. This is not including the various corporate fleets in the system, each totaling about twenty capital ships, with an average of five being combat focused. This means that there are several hundred TIEs in the system, plus corporate fighter screens of about 36 ships, again of varying capabilities and types, per corporation. We have established that there are seven different such corporations in this system," Cracken began, rattling off the numbers as if they were nothing.  
  
One pilot, a human Captain with jet-black hair worn moderately short, raised his hand. The man had most likely seen a deal of combat, as had every officer in the room, but he still seemed to have something of a baby face.   
  
"Yes, Captain Antilles?" the General questioned, somewhat put off that this junior officers would interrupt his briefing.  
  
"I apologize sir, but we don't have any Death Stars handy, do we? That's an entire sectors worth of starships! I doubt that we could take them, even if we brought to bear our entire fleet," the Captain replied, his eyes still wide.   
  
Trell Jorser just grinned widely. At least, the Mon Calamari approximation of a grin; his eyes had rolled independently of each other for a moment, his mouth had curved downwards; it was hard trying to make humans believe he was actually smiling when he did this: a Mon Calamari frown occurred when their mouths curved upwards, something that took far more effort than curving downwards. Humans had something of a problem adapting to other being's habits. As if it was easy adapting to the thousands of habits each human carried, independent of every other human. Jorser had heard about this specific human; the pilot had flown wing for Skywalker during the Battle of Yavin, and had proven himself a genius behind the stick of a fighter. He even seemed to have a grasp of tactics in a combat situation, something many starfighter jocks lost while trying to get the most possible kills. Still, he was young, which explained the outburst. Just ten years ago, Jorser would have most likely done the same.   
  
"Actually, we're going around the space angle entirely; with the dozens of gravity wells in this system, our normal tactic of hyperspacing in and out would be severely hampered anyway. Of course, this means that they're limited to normal drives as well; that SSD is stuck near the center of the system, unless it wants to leave the most valuable mineral deposits open to attack. But don't worry, Captain, you'll have plenty to do: Starfighters, small assault transports and ground troops will be the backbone of this operation. Now if you don't mind, I'll continue with the intelligence portion of the briefing. That won't be a problem, will it, Captain?" Cracken stated.  
  
"Uh, no sir," Antilles replied, blushing slightly.   
  
"Alright. Now, as the Captain just discovered, everyone in system is confined to normal drives, or incredibly short hyper jumps. This makes fighters the weapon of choice, and ground troops an important commodity. Our ground forces will move in, establish small bases on each planet, providing the fighters places to operate out of. When the Imperials bring a force large enough to kick you out, you evacuate and move to a new foothold. They can't be everywhere in the system at once; rather, they'll spread their capital ships out, focusing on protecting the Corporate mining operations and their own operations.   
  
"However, we would still have many, many problems if this was the only quantity we could factor into the equation. Rather, we can trust in the fierce competitiveness that exists between each of the seven corporations, which have cut out a piece of this system for their own. They have most likely each paid off the Imperials in great sums to ignore their own petty squabbles, which explains why there is a corporate war going on in the system, largely ignored by the Imperials. But that's not all.  
  
"Pirates have dropped in. Normally, a Super Star Destroyer would discourage them, but they saw the same weaknesses we have seen. There is also the guerilla war being waged by the natives of the jungle planet, the only sapient race in the system. Thanks to an Imperial attempt to use them as slave labor, they are now on every planet, and are causing problems for the Imps on every planet. They are of course losing badly, but they are one more added nuisance that the Imperials have to deal with. Finally, there is the relatively unknown equation of that rogue Imperial who initially gave us the location of this planet by accidentally dropping in. We don't know if he's still interested in joining us, and even if he was, we won't be reaching that part of the star system... for about four months. I'll let General Madine take over, and further explain to you just how long term our battle in this system will be."  
  
Jorser shook his head: he had known this was coming, but he still could not believe that the Rebel Alliance would commit this much of its military to this campaign. This had to be what the Empire wanted; they could afford to commit a massive force to this system: the Rebels couldn't. But then again... that would explain the massive amount of SecForce personnel here. They would most likely compose the majority of the forces committed, and would represent far less of a drain on Alliance High Command resources than if SpecForces were given the campaign. Even the Starfighter Command and Fleet Personnel were mostly SecForce... The Mon Calamari colonel could only wonder how he had managed to get picked out of all of SpecForce for this wonderful little tour of duty.  
  
Madine, the commander of Alliance SpecForces and the man to go to when you needed a crazy ground mission planned out, looked grim, as if he had been up all night for the past several weeks; Jorser figured that he most likely had been. Working out the strategy for a disaster like this would tax even the best man. Of course, it didn't have to be a disaster: Trell knew that Madine was one of the best; Trell would not have joined up with SpecForces if that had not been sure of that. Still, even the best had to make a mistake once in a while. The Colonel absently wondered if this might have been it.   
  
Madine began speaking as the holo-projector mirrored his words with an animated demonstration of the proposed leapfrog operation. "Many of you already think this operation is a bad idea. Many of you would prefer to be assigned to sectors where you'll be protecting your people, rather than fighting in a godforsaken system to keep the Imperials away from some minerals. Well, I could tell you that if we don't severely slow this operation, Imperial effectiveness in the rest of the galaxy will be tripled. I could tell you that we need to do something for that race the Imperials are using for slaves. I could tell you that causing the Imperials problems here will knock them back significantly, and force them to keep a large portion of their fleet in one small area of space. But I don't need to do that because I know you are all soldiers, and I'm a soldier. So I will outline for you what you have to do, when you can go home, and what has to be accomplished before we pull out.   
  
"Basically, the operation is a simple one. Our fleet will drop in, under the command of Admiral Terrilan, and keep the Imperials busy while our six super transports offload about sixty assault transports filled with troops. These transports will land on the outermost two planets and the two moderately habitable moons surrounding each. Each unit will have an individual assignment, anywhere from damaging Imperial and Corporate assets to setting up bases and landing strips for the fighters which will be operating from there. This initial drop will be given six days, and will be operating with limited fighter cover. Then the hop occurs. A small contingent will remain on each solar body, keeping the enemy units there busy while the rest of the force moves on. Any additional forces that are to be contributed to this effort will first land on the outermost planets, and then will be moved up towards the front. They are going to be our staging areas, and will therefore be incredibly important to this campaign. From this point onward, our forces will only hit major planets. We will never, ever completely extinguish any Imperial or Corporate forces anywhere, because if we do that, then the Imps can just move that SSD up and boil the entire planet, rather than letting us control it.  
  
"Our job is a hard one: we have to do the Imps massive damage in this system. Meanwhile, we have to convince them that our force is not worth expending an excessive amount of firepower on, but also that it is worth drawing troops and ships away from other areas. The initial campaign will last about six months, with us fighting our way to the core of the system. We will then pull the majority of our forces out, leaving a small SecForce contingent behind that will continue the strike and guerilla operations. More specific orders will be transferred to each of you; I will personally be briefing the SpecForce contingent assigned to this mission; Generals Brettock, Morassint and V'Shent will personally brief their respective SecForce contingents. Admiral Ackbar will brief all Fleet Personnel involved, General Seihar will brief Starfighter Command personnel. Ackbar and myself will not actually be participating in the operational portion of this campaign; High Command just hasn't figured out whom to place in charge of the SpecForce portions yet, and Admiral Terrilian is in the Vorfam System fighting a covering action for our troops there. Are there any questions?" Madine finished.   
  
  
  
The question and answer session at the end had gone the same as it always did; no new information was imparted, and everyone was as generally mystified by this operation as they had been when they first heard about it. As the vast number of officers began to file out of the room to their respective briefings, Colonel Trell Jorser pondered for a moment. Whoever was going to lead this had to be completely insane. He grinned, thinking that the chances of his being assigned to that position had just increased ten fold.   
As he headed towards the exit, he heard a call from behind him. He spun immediately, wondering if it could actually be whom it sounded like... "Veradun? I thought you'd gone down at the Battle at Grenadine!"   
"What, you think it's that easy to kill me, Colonel? Nah, when my hyperdrive went out, I used the grapples on my fighter to hook onto one of the last transports jumping out...," the short, dark skinned man clad in a flight suit explained.  
  
Hoset "Gambler" Veradun hadn't changed much since the last time Vorser had seen him. He still carried the SpecForce Marine emblem on his right fist, still seemed just as easy going as he had ever been. Veradun was one of the few men who was able to stand the Colonel's company for more than a few minutes without becoming uncomfortable. The Colonel had always told Veradun that this was because they were both of the same species, one that the scholars had yet to classify. Jorser wondered if Veradun had figured that one out yet. The only significantly new thing that the Colonel could pick out was the new set of insignia on the man's shoulder; Veradun had been promoted to Major recently, which was hardly surprising. The man was one of the best pilots and leaders that the Colonel had had the pleasure to work with. The unit patch was new as well, but you had to expect that kind of thing in the Rebellion. Unit transfers and reorganizations were constant, as many units were suddenly wiped out or depopulated by combat and transfers. Jorser's own battalion, the 275th Rancor's Teeth, had recently been cut down to only two companies from its original six.  
"And you just piggybacked your way to the rendezvous. Sounds like the kind of stunt you'd pull. So what are you doing here? I thought they had canceled the SpecForce Marine fighter support project after that disaster," Jorser stated, looking the man over.  
  
"Well, they kind of did, but they needed a fighter contingent to go in with the first wave and provide long term support for you people from the ground, before the landing areas are set up. These Starfighter Command pansies couldn't deal without a five star hotel set up for them, so they called in the only Marines they knew of with combat fighter experience. So I get my own squadron and I get hitched to this joyride," Veradun answered, grinning sheepishly, running his hand over the short crew cut that composed his hair.   
  
"Great, so the Rancors have to cover your ass while you pamper your fighter? What are they assigning you, anyway: I wouldn't waste an X-Wing on you psychos, so I know Madine won't," Jorser opined.  
  
"It's always nice to know you've got a friend on the ground. But of course, you're right: we're getting the bottom of the barrel: A dozen Lightstar Class assault fighters, mass driver turret and all. My techs keep asking me if they can just sell these on the antiques market and buy some real starfighters," Veradun pointed out.  
  
"Heh, tell 'em I second that. Bes'a isn't still with you, is she? I bet she could do wonders with even those heaps," Jorser questioned.  
  
Veradun shook his head sadly, "Nah, we lost her at Mentavi, just before Grenadine. The same thing goes for 90% of the old wing: that's why they could only muster a squadron of us for this little operation. And I have a feeling that not many of my people are gonna come out of this one, no matter what I do."  
  
"Well, my friend, there's only one thing you really can do," the Colonel stated simply, putting his arm around Veradun's shoulder, something he had picked up from humans.  
  
"And that is, Colonel?" Veradun asked, grinning, already knowing the answer.  
  
"Get stinking drunk in every possible leisure hour. Come, let's get the briefing from Madine: the quicker we're out of there, the quicker you can start buying me drinks at the Officers Club for that time I saved your life," the Colonel replied, giving the Major a broad Mon Cal grin; he was one of the few humans who had picked up on that particular sour looking gesture.   
  
The two soldiers, uncomfortable among any other company, were genuinely happy for a brief time. They were among the few warriors who had figured it out: the only way to avoid becoming horribly depressed by the whole business was to make a science out of friendship. Only express your true feelings, make true friends with others who had survived for more than a year in combat. As all their other old comrades were dead, this seemed a sensible course of action indeed.  
  



	2. Shore Leave

Chapter 2  
  
Lieutenant Derai Mol'shik, Rancors Teeth Battalion, C for Cresh Company, shook her head in disbelief as she watched her comrades on the dance floor of this local club. The junior officers had all been given indefinite leave on the planet below while the senior officers were briefed on Home One, the Mon Cal cruiser orbiting this Outer Rim planet. To tell the truth, Derai was glad for the leave; she'd just gotten out of Officer Candidacy School, and felt like celebrating. The only problem was what she had learned from her new friends in the Marine company she had been assigned to: that indefinite leave always meant a big mission, and that the next leave wouldn't be coming for a long time. Derai was left busy wondering why in the seven hells she had asked to be assigned to these psychos. The SpecForce Marines were the elite of Alliance assault units... but Derai didn't have a clue how they managed to fight after these leaves. Much less retain consciousness.  
  
The place was a dance club, with a large bandstand facing the dance floor of the establishment. The music being played had quite a few similarities to Corellian Swing music, probably due to the majority of the colonists on this world being Corellians. The colony was a few hundred years old, largely ignored by the Empire; the locals preferred it that way, and had refused to house a Rebel base here. They didn't mind, however, the infusion to their economy that a fleet leave provided. At least they weren't hostile, Derai figured. The fact that they hadn't put in a call to the Imperials was amazing in and of itself.  
  
The other junior officers were busy hitting on the locals, as well as the other Alliance officers from the various services who were frequenting the club they had ended up in. Derai was almost entirely certain that the entire population of the Alliance fleet in orbit had come down here. Suddenly, a voice and an arm around her shoulder brought the lieutenant out of her reverie. "C'mon, Der, wake up! Are you gonna sit here nursing your drink all night?" came the voice, another female, which meant it was Visha Teraf, a platoon commander in B for Besh Company. A Wroonian, Visha's naturally blue hair was cut short to retain military standards, but she still managed to style it for maximum effect. Derai grinned at that; that was one of the benefits of being Twi'lek: you didn't have to deal with the hair that was the bane of the other species. Of course, her brain tails required a great deal of upkeep when she wanted to go out, but they were otherwise much less of a burden than hair seemed to be.   
  
Even without hair, Derai managed to cut an alluring figure. Light, whitish skin and deep brown eyes complemented each other perfectly, giving off a sense of intelligence. She was pretty enough, by human standards, but was less than comfortable in an environment like this, and it carried over into her attitude.   
"Sorry, Visha, but I don't see this place as the target rich environment you do. Besides, I figure if I look surly enough, no SF Command flyboy will try one of their various routines on me," Derai replied, smiling at Visha, who already had quite a few marks of male company on her blue tinted neck. Probably just from the boys on the dance floor, actually, Derai guessed: the upbeat music being played seemed to encourage quite a bit of dancing that would be banned for excessive lewdness on most Imperial worlds.   
  
"Derai, anytime from a minute from now to a week from now, we're going to be called up and sent out to the frontlines. If you get killed without having any fun, don't blame me," Visha pointed out.  
  
"Vish, this isn't my type of celebration; I couldn't have as much fun as you're having if I tried," the more conservative lieutenant replied, smiling.  
  
"Is that a challenge? You know how we Wroonians respond to challenges, don't you? Bartender! Two Iceblasts, stat!" Visha called at the top of her lungs.  
  
"Never heard of it, miss; there's a thousand different drinks on every planet in the galaxy: you don't think I've heard of every one, do you?" the bartender replied, his eyebrows raised.  
  
"It's simple, buddy; just toss in a little of that... a little of that, a lot of that, and a bit of that blue fruit stuff for flavoring... beautiful," Visha instructed, taking the two drinks that the bartender produced and tossing him an Imperial credit: knowing that any money the Alliance issued would be valueless to most people, the Alliance paid its troops in Imperial Credits for the time being.   
  
"Now, we down these, then we snag ourselves a couple of partners... dance partners, Derai: you've got a sicker mind than I do; then we have ourselves some fun. That clear, Lieutenant?" Visha asked, smiling, the excessively alcoholic drink grasped in her hand.  
  
"Oh, yes ma'am; I just don't know what I'd do without you, Vish," Derai replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes dramatically.   
  
"Me neither, kid. To the Marines, who can make even a boring girl like you have some fun!" Visha screamed at the top of her lungs, then upturned the glass into her mouth. Derai followed suit, readying herself for whatever this drink contained.  
  
Surprisingly, it slid down her throat with ease: the Marine was almost willing to congratulate Visha on her choice of drinks when the force of the drink hit her, almost knocking her over. "I see you have yet to develop a Marine tolerance, darlin'. That's alright, just shake it off, and we can move to the next step of the mission," Visha suggested, grinning widely, not even phased by the potent mix she had ordered.  
  
Derai coughed once, shook her head vigorously, making sure not to disturb her head tails too horribly, then stood up straight. "Remind me again why I joined SpecForce, Vish," Derai ordered as the two women strode off towards a grouping of fighter jocks.  
  
"Because you needed to learn how to have fun, kid. I'll take the sad looking one, you take the one who looks like he needs to grow up," Visha murmured as they moved, placing their drinks on a passing server's tray.   
  
"Next time, I pick the dance partners. Your taste in men is obviously severely damaged by your taste in drinks," Derai murmured back.  
  
"It's not like I'm asking you to go off and graft with him, kid, just dance; let me do the talking," Visha shot, her face now lit with a winning smile.   
  
Derai's elbow caught Visha in the side, somehow without distracting the pilots they were approaching. Of course, the pilots weren't looking at their arms. "Hey, I heard you Rogue Squadron boys were pretty hot in the pilot's seat; want to try the dance floor with me and my friend?" Visha asked, her eyes twinkling.  
  
Derai was absolutely sure they would have the effect they desired; there were very few fighter pilots who could resist any female, much less a pretty Wroonian. Fighter pilots just couldn't stop themselves if presented with any kind of female at all.  
  
The sad looking pilot and the boyish looking pilot were the first to jump to the forefront, just as Visha had predicted. The latter flashed a grin and replied, "Didn't they tell you, Rogue Squadron is the best at everything; I'm Wes, and everyone calls him Hobbie. I don't know why; and I don't even think he knows why, so don't ask. Don't worry: he's a better dancer than he looks like."  
  
Derai couldn't help but smile; it was obvious that this Wes guy had the same job as Visha in this duo. She didn't know if it was the drink talking, or if Visha's attitude was infectious, but Derai found herself interjecting, "C'mon, boys, you can't be serious: everyone knows that the SpecForce Marines are the best... with everything. Trust me."  
  
"Only one way to find out," Wes replied, grinning widely, taking the hand she offered to him as he left his drink unfinished at the Rogue's booth. The other Rogues just groaned, watching the two be led off by the Marine women.   
  
"Watch out, Wes," one of them called out, "You get out of line, and they're liable to break you in half."  
  
Derai just turned and winked towards the booth, provoking an abashed grin from the fighter pilot whose hand she had taken. The band had just finished up another number, and was just starting on another tune, just as upbeat, just as sensual. The floor was crowded with locals and Alliance Military personnel, each pair of dancers seemingly fluid in their motion. Despite his boyish looks, this pilot was no different; as Derai grasped onto him and let him lead, she could tell that he was in very good shape. She decided that letting Visha pick both the men and the booze was a good idea after all.  
  
  
In another part of the city, one of the few on the planet, the Alliance enlisted personnel were frequenting a darker, less grandiose establishment. Private First Class Met Vaeisto, Rancor's Teeth Battalion, was well into his heavy drinking for the night, along with about seven other compatriots, males and females, all enlisted. "Now tell me this, Beranger, why in the hell do we have officers at all? I'm pretty sure that the Sergeant could run this battalion himself. What are officers for, except to take the first pick of the women before we drop in?" Vaeisto asked, taking a pull from a bottle of the locally brewed beer. It tasted horrible, but it was cheap, and that was what they were looking for.  
Vaeisto was short for a soldier, but his build more than made up for it. He'd grown up in a mining town, a long ways from this place, a hot, unforgiving world that rewarded the hard workers and drove away those who couldn't handle it. He'd been a hard worker, if only because he wanted to help his sizeable family, but had been driven away by something else; the intense isolation of the place. With short cut brown hair and a lightly tanned, somewhat craggy face, he was not what you'd call handsome, but rather stolid. When one looked in his face and they knew they could depend on him. Of course, his rather limited exposure to the world prevented him from getting into any scholarly debates. Not that it mattered here; he had adapted perfectly from living with tough, self-dependent miners to living with tough, self-dependent soldiers.  
  
"Now, I'll admit that a great deal of officers aren't exactly what I'd call the best of the best; especially the ones we got from the Empire. Like mynocks off a collapsing starship, though Madine is a notable exception. The thing is, in SpecForce most of the officers are former enlisted, just like us. So we're pretty well off. Nah, the real problem in the Alliance is the Fleet," Lance Corporal Derin Beranger replied, his arm around Lance Corporal Moira Terif.  
  
"I'll agree with you there, Beranger. Fleet sits around in their nice climate controlled starships while we pack our way through every climate that's ever been imagined by whatever it was that created this mess of worlds. Though I'm not adverse to their women," Vaeisto agreed.  
  
"Ah, Fleet Command, because Nerfs would be too obvious," Moira shot in, grinning. The entire group broke into raucous laughter at that; SpecForce more universally despised Fleet Command than even Starfighter Command. Though SF Command was a close second, followed by SecForce, looked upon as basically a militia that would turn tail at the first sign of combat.   
  
One of the other women there, Private Reifi Stream, shook her head in mock shame as she took a pull from the bottle of cheap whiskey she grasped in her right hand. Her dark blonde hair was cut through with brown; though she claimed it was natural, the streaks seemed too perfect to have been with her from childhood. Still, with a harsh, cynical demeanor reflected in her behavior and her dark green eyes, she did not exactly look the type to take the time to perfect her looks. A moderately tall woman, she was not perfectly shaped, but her SpecForce training had kept her fit enough.   
  
She was one of the few here who had previous combat experience, from a stint in a commando group previously unaffiliated with the Rebel Alliance. Most of the men and women of the Rancor's Teeth Battalion were fresh from training camp or non-combat duty on various bases. They'd been sent in to replace the large gaps left by the last campaign, along with the fact that many of the survivors of the last campaign had transferred to less exciting duty. The majority of the battalion was not combat tested, despite being very well trained: though training could only do so much.  
  
This was common in the Alliance forces. A unit could lose more than seventy five percent of its original contingent through combat alone, and another ten percent through transfers. Luckily, the stream of volunteers had yet to abate: units were quickly brought back to strength, but the fact that they were largely untested served to bring about even more casualties. Most commanders preferred to bring his forces into light engagements first, give them a taste of combat, then move them up to more bloody engagements. The only problem was that this luxury could rarely be taken in the SpecForce Marines: every engagement they entered was bloody, so every engagement was a trial by fire. The best survived longer than others, but everyone died eventually if they were out there long enough. That was why long campaigns in the field brought so much distaste to the mouth of soldiers. They drastically increased the chances that one would die, just because of the sheer amount of time one was under fire. But right now, such considerations were abandoned in favor of a few moments of forced cheer.  
  
Reifi took a second pull from her drink, then contributed to the ongoing argument, "I don't know, maybe we don't need the Fleet anymore: it seems like every ten seconds that relationships are popping up between the soldiers in every company; maybe the Fleet is obsolete."  
  
"You got a problem with that, Reifi?" Beranger asked, his eyebrow raised.  
  
"None at all, Beranger; but you've got to admit that it brings up some questions: if you only have the chance to save one of us, are you gonna save Moira or me?" Reifi questioned, taking another pull.  
  
"She's got you there, Beranger; though really, I think we'd all save anyone before we saved Reifi," another Marine, a Rodian Pfc named Te'chun.  
  
Reifi grinned towards Te'chun, winking, "Well, of course, Tec, that's a given: but seriously, you gotta wonder occasionally."  
  
A Sullustan Lance Corporal, Noran Vlunb, shook his head morosely, "You realize you've cursed every couple in the battalion now, don't you, Reifi?"   
  
"How so, Nor?" Reifi questioned.  
  
"Well, if this is a bad holofic, which I'm absolutely sure it is, the situation you described will come up, with the lover trapped in a position where any rescuer would certainly die, and the non-lover in a place where they could be rescued. And in order to prove that he or she is a soldier now, and knows how to think like one, the rescuer/lover will rescue the one who can be saved, leaving the lover to die. Then there will be all sorts of broken hearts, and the battalion will be plunged into heartbreak," Noran pointed out, taking a swig of his own drink.  
  
"You realize that if that happens now I'm gonna kill you, right, Noran?" Moira inquired.  
  
"Well, I'd be threatened, but technically you're the one who's supposed to die in that situation," Noran replied, grinning a mousy Sullustan grin.  
  
"Hey, this is the SpecForce Marines, Noran; nothing makes logical sense, and everything is topsy turvy: I'll probably have to go after Beranger here," Moira opined.  
  
"Ah, the superior wisdom of the woman has spoken; and since this is SpecForce, you better save both of us; otherwise the drill instructor who trained us will be very, very disappointed," Beranger stated.  
  
"If all of you pessimists are finished, this place's music is giving me a headache; how bout we find another joint and some Fleet babies to mess with," Vaeisto suggested, lighting a cigarra and taking a draw.  
  
"I'm with Vaeisto. I'm guessing we ship out pretty soon, so we might as well have some real fun before we leave this bumfrag planet," Te'chun agreed, getting up to go, finishing off his drink.   
  
"I think me and the soon to be dead here will let you guys go for now," Moira replied, grinning while giving Beranger a light kiss.   
As the rest of the Marines went to the establishment's exit in order to leave, Vaeisto opined to Noran, "You know, right about now, that'd be worth dying for."  
  
"I hear that... though you're in a better position than me, kid; how many Sullustan females do you think there are around here who aren't officers?" Noran asked, grinning morosely.  
  
"Damn... ok, you are worse off than me, Nor," Vaeisto conceded.  
  
Reifi draped her arm around Vaeisto and piped in, "Much worse off than you, kid; after we find those Fleet babies you promised and rough 'em up some, I'll make sure you end up dead."  
  
Vae raised his eyebrows, knowing he shouldn't reply, but somehow having to, "I thought you were worried about an adverse affect on our unit cohesiveness."  
  
"Kid, if we survive this campaign, then I'll have the luxury to worry about unit cohesiveness. Tonight, I just want to have some fun," Reifi replied.   
Te'chun turned to one of another Rodian Marine who was with the group, "Anybody here got a track on the birth control market in this battalion? I have this weird feeling it's going to be incredibly lucrative."  
  
The surrounding Marines just laughed, stumbling drunkenly through the streets, their voices rising in the night air.  
  
  
First Sergeant Arnysent 'Saber' Helteran winked over the hand of cards he held. He was in no mood to go out tonight; boozing it up and working out those hormones was for the kids. He would be alive today, he would be alive tomorrow, and he would be alive for the next thirty years. He didn't need to assure himself of that fact, it just was. He had a confidence about him that was not weakened by the responsibilities of rank, nor by the fears of youth. Unlike many sergeants, men who had to run battalions, companies and platoons while making it seem like the officers were still in charge, Arny did not respond to the strange situation with overt cynicism. In fact, the man was one of the truest believers in the ideals of the Rebellion; that didn't blind him to reality, either, though.   
  
Still, it was a war, and you had to accept the danger. You just had to find that middle ground, accept that no one lives forever, and go off and do your job. Someday you would get to sit in the retirement community on some world somewhere and tell kids huge lies about the War Against the Empire, or the Galactic Civil War, or the Galactic Revolution, or whatever the hell they ended up calling it. He was certain that the politicians would change the name once or twice; if the Rebellion won the war, they wouldn't annihilate the Empire: they'd have to integrate its remains. Thusly, a politically correct name for the war would have to be discovered. Not his problem, really; politics did not concerned Arny Helteran, though he figured he had as good a grasp of them as anyone did.   
  
Arny had not joined the Rebellion for any high-minded political ideals; no, he had signed on because he didn't like being told what to do. Even in the moderately Alliance military Arny made his own rules; it was the only way to get anything done. The Alliance was a Rebellion, but it had its own bureaucracy with layers of red tape. Arny worked within the system when he could, but if it was hurting the operation of C for Cresh Company, he ignored it. The Alliance brass didn't notice, and even if they had, they would have overlooked the discretions because Arny was excellent at his job. But right now, the first sergeant was unconcerned with the smooth operation of his unit, and more focused on important concerns. Such as winning this Sabacc hand.  
"Comeon, Amp, didn't you think you had a pretty hot hand a few moments ago?" Arny taunted one of the other players, Sergeant Rhriampount, a rather large reddish brown furred Wookie hailing from 4th platoon.  
  
The Wookie let out a couple of short barks in reply, tossing two cards into the skifter, the card randomizer at the center of the table. Arny just laughed heartily.   
  
"You've got to be kidding me, Amp; you know that you'd be as likely to lose an arm as I would be if you tried that arms ripped from the sockets routine you're so fond of mentioning," Arny replied.  
  
"Someday you two are actually going to get drunk enough to go at each other, and the Alliance will be out a couple thousand credits providing you with four cybernetic limbs each," Sergeant Elian Rendisan, a Deveronian with 1st Platoon, shot in, tossing one card into the skifter.  
  
"And the company's oddsrunners'd gain a couple hundred thousand credits; I'm guessing that the entire company would toss in some credits to see that fight. Well, even if you lost all your limbs, at least our company would be legendary; 'Man bit by wookie, bites back'," Sergeant Mista Contrevi, a red haired near human with third platoon, guessed, letting her hand stand.  
  
"I know I'd toss a few credits in," Elian assured, grinning.  
  
The other two at the table, another 3rd platoon sergeant, a Sullustan by the name of Terin Lusub, and a 2nd platoon sergeant, a human named Gaferin Stantin, threw two and three cards into the skifter respectively. The skifter activated, and the sergeants checked their new hands. Lusub tossed his cards down immediately, swearing in his own language.   
  
Smoke hung in the air as if it were a blanket; every member of the group clutched a cigarra or some other instrument of lung damage in their mouths. This was their escape for the night; they had to spend what credits they earned on something, after all, and the chaos of the younger soldiers' leave just didn't appeal to these veterans. The group had stayed aboard the Home One; luckily for them, the NCO's club was empty; most of the other Sergeants had gone down for leave.  
  
"I gotta wonder why none of us are out with the kids tonight," Mista pondered as she looked over the combination in front of her.  
  
"Well, Mist, do you feel like getting smashed or having some kind of sexual misadventure that you'll regret for the rest of your life?" Stantin questioned.  
  
"Not particularly," Mista replied.  
  
"And there's your answer; I'm out," Stantin stated reasonably, tossing his cards down.  
  
"I don't know about the rest of you, but I plan on getting smashed tonight; and as for the misadventures, I've already had my share: I'll wait a few years before embarking on any new ones," Arny shot in.  
  
Amp roared in agreement, taking a swig from the bottle of Whyrens Reserve Whiskey that the group had 'procured' from the quartermaster on Home One. It had required some sweet-talking, and the donation of a few hundred credits to the Quartermaster's coffers, but they'd pulled it off.   
  
"Does he have to drink straight out of the bottle? I'm staying in," Mista questioned and stated her resolve to keep in the game as her turn came up.  
  
"You gonna argue with him?" Lusub questioned, raising a brow.   
  
"Yes! Being a Wookie doesn't automatically make you exempt from polite society," Mista replied.  
  
"I thought being a sergeant did," Elian opined, tossing his cards in with a sigh of disgust.  
  
Amp barked an apology and very theatrically wiped off the rim of the bottle, then held it out to Mista. He growled to the assembly at whole that he'd be happy to go a round with Arny, but wouldn't want to risk his limbs with Mist.  
Arny chuckled, "Rule by fear... you sure you don't want my job, Mist?"   
  
"Not for all the credits you've lost over the years, Arny," she assured him.  
  
"Well, I begin earning them back tonight; I'm in," the First Sergeant replied, smiling contentedly.  
  
Amp growled, but rather than issuing out a string of Wookie curses, he very carefully placed his cards on the table and barked something sarcastic towards Mista.   
  
"Yes, that was so much better, Amp; you'll be ready for polite society in another century or so," she replied, grinning wickedly.  
  
"So, what's it gonna be, Mist; call or fold?" Arny questioned, smiling.  
  
"Call, of course. I'll be dead before I fall for one of your bluffs, Arny," Mista replied, tossing a few more credits on the table.  
  
Arny replied with his own contribution to the center of the table, winked at her, turned his cards over and stated simply, "Read 'em and weep. Once in a very long, long while, I'm not bluffing."  
  
Mista cursed, turning her own cards over, "Well, that's why you're the First Sergeant. But twenty credits says I'll have won that hand back from you by the end of the night."  
  
"I'm flattered: you're so amazed by my ability, you've decided to start tipping me," Arny mocked, laughing.  
  
"Watch it, Arny, I don't think you want to make a woman angry; especially a SpecForce Marine," Lusub cautioned.  
  
"You're right as always, Lusub; I don't want a Wookie and Mista after me at the same time. I better make up with her; I'm less afraid of Amp here," Arny joked.  
  
"Remind me to transfer, Elian," Mista requested amid the laughter.  
  
"Duly noted, Sergeant," Elian replied, chuckling.  
  
  
Lieutenant Derai Mol'shik was drunk; more so than she'd ever been before in her life. What was more, she was kissing a starfighter pilot she'd met about an hour before and danced with for most of that time. But then again, as Visha had said, they weren't here to forge any long lasting relationships. Another plus was that the pilot was pretty handsome, in a boyish kind of way, and funny, though she wasn't really focusing on that aspect right now. Still, this basically went against every principle Derai held dear. Maybe that was why it was so damn fun. What was his name again... Wes, that was it...   
  
She broke away from the kiss for a few seconds and managed to get out, "Wes, I've gotta go to the bathroom for a few seconds, I'll be right back."   
  
"Uh, sure," he stuttered, still a little surprised that he had lucked out this much.  
  
The bathroom was a literal portrait in chaos, as SpecForce, Fleet and Starfighter command women leaned over the stalls, relieving themselves of the contents of their stomachs after a night of drinking. Derai wondered if she would be emulating these girls in another hour; the buzz was still around her, but she knew that that could give way to excessive pain at any moment Other women were swishing mouthwash before going out again, while still others were trying to wake up a compatriot in Fleet Command who seemed to have passed out. Visha was among the women helping the girl, a human female with blonde hair drawn back in a pony tail. Visha looked up, saw her friend, winked at her and flashed her a smile.   
  
"Give us a hand here, darlin?" Visha hinted.   
  
"One second," Derai managed to get out, moving to the sink and splashing a great deal of water on her face, drinking the rest, trying her best to get some non-alcoholic fluids flowing through her body.   
  
After a few moments of this, she felt rejuvenated; whether this was just an illusion or not, she didn't know, but Derai figured it was better than nothing. She walked over to the other women who were trying to wake up their friend. Derai held the woman's head up as they moved her over to the sink, letting the water flow over her face. This did not have the desired effect: the woman remained comatose. "Lift up her head again, Der," Visha commanded.   
Derai did as she was told; the other women propped her up against the sink. As soon as she had a good track on her, Visha landed a slap across the woman's face. Nothing happened: she seemed to be pretty far gone. Visha considered for a second, then drew the woman over to one of the few sanitary, unused toilets. Derai looked at her friend, giving her a "You've got be kidding me" look, but realized that in this kind of situation, you did what you had to do. If anything, it'd teach the girl to celebrate a little less heartily next time around. The group pressed the woman's head under the water for a moment, then withdrew her again. They repeated this motion about three times when they were finally rewarded with a sputtering cough from the woman, followed by an excessively long evacuation of her stomach. The girl opened her eyes wide and staggered over to the sink with her friends, quickly trying to wash her face with what soap was available. Priorities, Derai thought, somewhat resignedly.   
  
After her other friends helped her clean herself up some, the woman staggered out of the room with her arm over one of the other girls, ready to go out for more. Derai just looked at Visha, raising her eyebrow curiously. Visha just grinned, standing there, her uniform still spotless somehow. "Having fun with that fighter jock, Der?" Visha questioned.  
  
"Yeah, I like him; speaking of, he's probably missing me already, I better get out there soon," Derai replied, haphazardly rearranging her headtails.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Der; I'm guessing he'd be willing to wait for a few standard timeparts before he gave up on you," Visha guessed, leaning against a dry part of the counter.  
  
"You think? How's your guy coming?" Derai asked.  
  
"His friend was right: he's better than he looks; but I think it's time to move to the next one; you might want to try that yourself," the Wroonian pointed out.  
  
"I think I'll just stick with one for tonight, Visha; I've yet to reach your level of mastery," the less experienced woman stated dryly.  
  
Visha giggled, "Don't tell me this is your first time doing anything with a guy."  
  
Derai's eyes widened, and she assured her friend, "No! Of course I've dated guys; but this is the first time I've ever randomly picked up some guy in a dance joint!"  
  
"Ahhh, that makes more sense then; well, ok, your funeral: and didn't I tell you you'd have fun?" Visha gloated.  
  
"Yeah, and you were right; I haven't had this much fun in my entire life," Derai admitted.  
  
Visha just laughed and walked out, crying, "I win!"   
  
Derai just shook her head as she walked out herself, "Wroonians and their bets..."  
  
The lieutenant immediately saw her pilot friend; he was indeed still sitting at the booth they had been sharing; she also noticed his pessimistic looking friend there, though he seemed a little happier than usual, a grin on his face. As Derai approached, a little more sure of herself than she had been before, the pilot's friend excused himself.  
  
"You talking about me, flyboy?" Derai asked, smiling as she stretched out a hand to the fighter pilot.  
  
"A little bit; but mostly Hobbie was telling me he got ditched by your friend for a SpecForce Pathfinder lieutenant," the pilot replied, grinning back, letting himself be pulled.  
  
"Oh, I'm sure he'll be fine, Wes," she assured him, her eyes shining as they stepped onto the dance floor just as the music was starting up again.  
  
Another Corellian swing tune, this one was simple enough, but was designed so that the skilled could perform incredibly complicated moves to its beat. As soon as the music began, Derai began moving, draping herself across her partner, then breaking away a moment later, only to be swung between his legs a moment later. She slid with the movement, twisting perfectly to come out behind Wes, cooperating with him to come up again. As he spun to come face to face with her, they became intertwined again, their feet seeming to move in concert.   
Derai couldn't help but smile at this; she had danced very little over the course of her life, but knew exactly why she could move like a natural. She would have to thank her Drill Instructor someday: Her hand to hand combat instruction had been enough to teach her how to move with another body, compensate, and apply pressure when needed; she doubted her combat. She just had never expected to use these skills in a dance hall, much less on another Alliance soldier. Of course, knowing that she was successfully attracting the young pilot with a set of skills that were better geared towards killing others caused her smile to grow even broader. Who said the military didn't teach real world skills that could be used after the war? This was benefiting her non-combat life already, and she hadn't even gone on a mission yet. Yes, she definitely had to thank her drill instructor.  
  
Her arms sliding across her partner's, Derai swung back and forth with the music, her head tails swinging freely. The things almost seemed to move with a mind of their own, easily avoiding colliding with her partner or any other dancers. They slid across each other, seeming to mirror her movements in dance, beckoning to the pilot. He couldn't know what their movements meant, though several Twi'lek onlookers could only shake their heads in sorrow. Only a human would be clueless enough to still be just dancing with a Twi'lek girl who was that far-gone. Still, if he ever got what was going on through his thick human skull, he would be one lucky fighter pilot. Hobbie was already taking bets on whether his wingman would break any bones tonight.   
  
Meanwhile, Derai was caught in her own little world, her every move in perfect harmony with her partner, her every dip, dive, sway and leap a perfect combination. She'd never let herself go this much in her entire life; she'd never danced with a man she'd never met before, she'd never been this intoxicated with both life and various alcohols. Lieutenant Derai Mol'shik had discovered the point behind a SpecForce Marine leave: to enjoy every moment alive, so that if death came during her next mission, she could say she had really lived life. Or at least what her best guess at a life was. She was about to be launched off to almost certain death, and would most likely be fighting for however long her life lasted, be it five more weeks, or fifteen more years. Needless to say, living ones life in the midst of total conflict could not be expected to mold the most well balanced people. So, starting with tonight she would live her life the way Visha and all the other Alliance Military personnel were living it: in the state of a constant party, punctuated by periods of brief fighting, long plateaus of boredom, and excessive amounts of everything in her moments of leave.   
  
The Galactic Civil War had done something that Mon Mothma could never have predicted. For a generation of females and males serving the Alliance, life had become both perfect and horrific: they could act with complete abandon, live life without consequences, live as teenagers for the rest of their lives, at the cost of their ability to live without the Galactic Civil War. If it ever ended, this generation would be totally and completely lost, unable to comprehend a world without constant conflict, both on and off the battlefield.  
  
None of this matter to Lieutenant Derai, however: she was celebrating this new, almost mystical, state of bliss she had entered, a state of bliss many had entered before her, many had entered tonight, and many would enter for as long as this conflict existed. She merely relished living, as Flight Officer Wes Janson, the man dancing with her, was relishing living. As everyone in this room, as every soldier on this planet was relishing living. The dance continued, but Derai and Janson could have cared less about the music; they were only living for being in someone else's arms for a few moments longer. They just wanted to feel protected, in that bubble with a perceived loved one, for a second longer. That feeling, which could not be duplicated with all the powers in the galaxy, was one of the few refuges they could find for themselves in this turbulent time. Derai just smiled again as the song ended and she landed, upraised, in the young pilot's arms. Her entire body was being overwhelmed by her surroundings; a thousand fragments of thoughts competed equally for her attention. The only complete thought she managed to form was that she was profoundly glad that she wasn't sitting at the bar, nursing a drink.  
  
  
The Duros gunner's mate was faster than he looked, Vaeisto grudgingly admitted to himself as the alien landed another combination to his face that he only partially blocked this time. If he had been sober, and if he hadn't already been dealing with three other Fleet Command bozos at the same time, he could have handled this in his sleep. Still, the Marine knew that no matter what the odds, he'd never live down being beaten by some Fleet gunners mate. So, when he saw the opening, Mik Vaeisto slid his elbow through the Duros' defenses, connecting with its naturally collapsed nose. Taking advantage of the alien's dazed state, Vaeisto moved in close, sending his knee into its gut, causing it double over in pain. A second blow with his knee, this time directly into the gunners mate's head, sent the creature into unconsciousness.   
  
That was when the next one came; a human this time, slamming a fist into Vaeisto's gut then connecting another two shots to his nose. Luckily, depending on how you looked at it, Vaeisto's nose had already been broken much earlier during the scuffle, rendering the blows ineffective at best, and merely distracting at worst. Vaeisto just turned, grinned and winked to the man, then waded in. The Marine private slammed repeated blows into the Fleet man's body, breaking ribs and causing general collateral damage. By the time he let up, the man was still standing, but all the fight had left him. The last thing that passed before his eyes while he was conscious was Vaeisto's fist connecting with his face.   
  
Looking up from his handiwork, Vaeisto saw that the other Marines had finished with the rest of the Fleet personnel in the cantina. It had been about twelve men and women against a total of eight Marines; Vaeisto grinned, thinking that they had done pretty well, considering. All the Marines were badly damaged, some clutching ribs, other broken bones or severe bruises, but none had gone down. Reifi had taken a few hits; her eye was obviously blackened, and like all the Marines, her nose had received some severe damage. It seemed like the Fleet bozos always went for the face... of course, Vaeisto considered, he'd done the same thing. Vaeisto observed that Reifi had managed to maintain her rough beauty despite the damage that had been done to her. Or perhaps the damage made her even more desirable. Pfc Vaeisto didn't really know, to tell the truth.   
  
Reifi winked to him, and called over, "Not bad, kid; seems we're already embracing the SpecForce Marine code: defeat numerically superior enemies through superior morale and training."  
  
The gathered Marines laughed, a laugh that was strong in spite of the pain it caused them. Laughing with broken ribs, after all, is a true chore. Not that they cared; this was their own escape from the reality of whatever it was this coming conflict entailed. Vaeisto suggested, "We might want to head out, split up; I'm guessing the local magistrates or our own MPs'll be here in a few minutes."  
  
"Not a bad idea, kid; let's go get smashed somewhere else in celebration; I'll see you grunts later, Te'chun, Noran," Reifi Stream agreed, saying farewell to the rest of the Marines, who exited the establishment, leaving only the bartender and a dozen unconscious Fleet bozos to clean up the mess.  
  
Reifi and Vaeisto staggered down the street, their arms over each other more in support than in any gesture of camaraderie. Still, they carried with them the pure adrenaline of the previous encounter with the Fleet, and were wracked with occasions of unreasonably raucous laughter.   
  
"Gods, if this is what SpecForces do for fun, I can't wait for combat," Reifi stated, giggling, as they staggered down another back alley.   
  
"Yeah, it's not like being sober is required when fighting the Imps," Vaeisto replied.  
  
"Oh damn... I think that that bad whiskey is catching up with...," Reifi started, interrupted only by a sudden torrent of expulsion. Much of what she had drank and ate that evening ended up on the street floor.  
  
"That's a lesson for yah, Private: don't drink and fight," Vaeisto mock lectured, laughing.  
  
"Don't make fun, kid; five credits says that you'll be on your knees in another few minutes," Reifi replied, wiping off the remnants from her face.  
  
"I only take bets I can win, Stream; where are we, anyway? I don't see any bars nearby," Vaeisto pondered.  
  
"I don't think there are any in this part of town...," she stated, looking around.   
  
"Well, then I guess we'll just wonder around, throwing up and getting sober until we reach the next joint," the other Marine resolved, helping her up.  
  
As they staggered through the streets together, Mik could only wonder at what might await them. The fact was, despite the alcohol, despite the brawling, despite everything, Mik was scared. There was an innate strangeness about this whole environment, about this new world beyond his home and family. He was pretty sure he wasn't afraid of the enemy; he was a crack shot, and had come out near the top during his SpecForce training. He'd been in fights before, back home, and had never backed down. Just because he was using a rifle instead of a knife didn't change anything: he was sure that couldn't be the source of whatever it was that had been striking him the past few days.   
  
The only thing he could think of was that he was afraid of the vast change his life had taken over the course of the last several months. He knew things were changing, had been changing from the moment he joined up with the Alliance, up to tonight, probably his last night of peace before shipping out. What made Mik wonder even more was a profound assurance that everyone else here was as scared as he was. They were all responding the same way as he was, all latching onto one another, to life as a whole. It struck him as kind of strange as he looked at Reifi; despite her relative experience, she was only a year older than him, nineteen. They were shipping out an army of teenagers and twenty somethings. Basically kids. He knew he felt like a kid, anyway: nothing like the veterans he'd seen coming through the base he had been stationed on briefly before this assignment. They had been a couple years older than him at the most, but seemed like they'd seen decades of action.   
  
"Wondering what the hell you're doing here, aren't yah, kid?" Reifi interrupted his thoughts.  
  
"Something like that; it's just that everything is different from the way it used to be," Mik replied.  
  
"Get used to it; I don't think anything's going to be the same anymore after this," Reifi stated.  
  
"Yeah, but what happens afterwards? What happens when I go back home? Do I get a job? Work at the mine I was going to work at before I joined up with the Rebellion? Will my family even want me back?" Mik questioned.  
  
"Well, there's really only one way to solve the problem, Mik," Reifi answered, using his first name for once, "We live for today, we do our jobs, and we hope somebody else is living a normal life, cause we sure as hell aren't."  
  
"You know, that could have turned into an incredibly effective pickup line, Rei; 'We have to live for today, so be with me tonight' or something like that," Mik Vaeisto suggested.  
  
"Who said it wasn't? Seriously, Mik, try not to worry too much about it. If this war ends in another few years, then we can afford to waste time wondering what to do next. Until then, we've got more important things to do," Reifi stated simply.  
  
"Like what, Stream?" Vaeisto asked dubiously.  
  
"Like this," she answered with a kiss, holding him against the wall of the alley.  
  
Strangely, Vaeisto found himself not minding the aftertaste of Reifi's recent expulsion of the contents of her stomach. In fact, he found himself not really caring about anything, the future or the past. Holding this girl, kissing her in this godforsaken alley on this backwater planet, gave him more feeling than anything had before in his life. The spontaneous kiss seemed sweeter than any kiss he'd stolen from the girls in his mining town. In fact, that mining town seemed further away than it ever had before. The great thing was, he did not mind anymore. The girls intent on finding husbands, the men working the same job that they'd been doing for decades... it was behind him. She was right, after all: he had more important things to worry about now.   
  
The two moons of this planet shone down on the darkened alley, slightly illuminating the pair. They held there for a few moments longer, two frightened kids trying to find solace and protection in a world that had ceased to provide any of either for a long time. After a few moments, they finally broke the embrace. They felt embarrassed for some reason, even though there was no one to observe them. Despite their earlier flirtations, the two had not expected to end up this way.   
  
"You still want to grab that drink, Mik?" she asked him quietly.   
  
Vaeisto knew that his answer would decide something. He also knew that he would not get a chance like this for a long time. They'd be busy with the Imperials, with trying to survive. Chances were that one of them would die in the next several weeks, which would most likely play havoc with a relationship. Even if this did not develop anything, even if it was just a few moments to forget where they were going... Vaeisto, over the course of his life, had developed very few sensibilities, but something about this seemed wrong, like they were both taking advantage of each other.   
  
"Yeah; besides, like you said, I'll probably need to throw up in a few blocks anyway," the young man replied, smiling disconcertedly.  
  
"Alright, the next rounds on me. And it wouldn't have been wrong, kid, but that's ok," Reifi stated, throwing her arm over his shoulder. Together they moved to stagger towards the nearest possible cantina.  
  
  
As Lieutenant Derai staggered from the bathroom for what seemed like the fifteenth time that night, she was able to observe that the dance hall had changed significantly over the course of the night. Smoke was permeable in the air, booze spilled in a multitude of locations on the floor. Many Alliance officers were collapsed on the floor of the establishment, others were still attempting to continue drinking and talking. As far as Derai could tell, Visha had left earlier, most likely with one of the various men she'd been flirting with over the course of the night. Her pilot was still there though, in not much better condition than she was. She finally staggered over to him and landed in his arms, hardly able to stand thanks to her copious intake of the best this place had to offer.  
  
She had to wonder if the fun she'd been having all night was worth feeling this bad. Of course, after looking up at this pilot she'd met, Wes, she had to admit that the night hadn't been a total loss. Even if she never saw him again, she'd at least gotten to share this night with someone else, been able to share her fear, her enthusiasm for the cause, everything she was feeling, without having to say a word. Of course they had talked, but never about what they were really feeling. Rather, like all short meetings, it had been filled with jokes, stories, conversations about where they might be shipping off to, or when the leave was going to be canceled. In a situation like this, people never talk about how they are afraid of dying. They never say, "I'm afraid I'll never see you again, but just hold me for a few more minutes, and we can pretend we'll be together forever." It was just felt, without the words ever being spoken. However it was conveyed, this time was important for them: they might never get a chance to feel this again.   
  
Of course, Derai was no longer thinking clearly; the alcohol had long ago rendered that faculty unreliable at best. She smiled up at Janson, her eyes twinkling, her movements awkward, yet somehow still alluring. "You want to get out of here, flyboy?" she questioned.  
  
The Rogue Squadron pilot just grinned and replied, "Sure; if we stay here much longer, we'll need artificial lungs."  
  
The two of them managed to remember to pick up their dress jackets on the way out of the dance hall, then staggered out, arm in arm. Except for their insignia, they looked like any other pair out tonight. Alcohol is the one great unifying factor in any military, something that transcends rank and status. Idly, Derai wondered if she might regret this the next day; that thought found quick dismissal in the realization that she'd be too busy the next day, and every day after that for a long while, to be regret anything.  
  



	3. Shipping Out

Chapter 3  
  
The starfighter appeared almost raptor like in its shape, streamlined, with only slight disturbances along its shell. The fighter used old technology, more suited for atmosphere than space, but with an experienced pilot behind the stick, she could handle as well as any modern fighter. In this case, Hoset "Gambler" Veradun thought to himself, she would have to; TIEs were on the cutting edge of technology, even if they had no shields.   
  
This particular TIE had already taken out Veradun's wingman as they attempted to guard the colony. The pilot inside it was obviously good, but he was not the best; if he had been, Veradun knew he would already be dead. Trying to evade the hostile, bring it into his own gun range, Veradun pulled a series of maneuvers he absolutely knew would work. His fighter spun hard right, responding to the pilot's every movement, every slight press on the etheric rudders, every miniscule tug on the stick. His opponent clung to him hard, attempting to match his every move. With a sudden dip and pull he sent his fighter into a tight spin, pulling back hard on the thrusters, bringing her up and over into a Split S. Suddenly, the enemy fighter was in his sights, having overshot just barely. A pull of the trigger, and the fighter's 20mm twin mass driver cannons opened up on the TIE, ripping through its engines, blowing apart its fuselage.   
  
Ammo based technology was ancient, but it could still be used effectively when the situation demanded it. Veradun pulled his fighter in a gradual turn and scanned his sensors for the status on the Alliance transports his wing was supposed to be protecting. Veradun swore to himself; there were only three left, plus the carrier, though she was showing signs of heavy damage. Three out of a dozen transports... the Imps had broken through their screen. This battle was already lost, regardless of what he did now. What was more, his wing had been devastated; only a few of the fighters were left from each squadron. They barely made up a squadron in strength. He'd known this battle was lost from the beginning; his commander had basically ordered them into veritable suicide. The worst thing was that he didn't feel himself caring about the lives lost. Checking the data stream, it was obvious that they'd failed to check the TIE flanking movement he had alerted them to. They had made a mistake, so now they were dead. It was time to get out of here himself.  
  
That was when his board started lighting up; weapons lock. Two TIEs had gotten behind him during his reverie. He pulled hard up, found another lock nailing him. A hail of bolts flashed by his cockpit as he pulled his fighter into a series of insane spins and loops, desperately trying to break out. That was when one of the bolts slammed into his fighter, ripping it in half, sending him spinning towards nothingness...  
  
Veradun shuddered and sat up straight from his repose. He looked around, expecting to be in space, in the remnants of his fighter at Grenadine, but saw only his cabin. In his fist was gripped a nearly empty bottle of wine, left over from his celebration with Jorser the night before. Veradun chuckled and shook his head. "Bad booze," he mumbled.  
  
Veradun saw that his uniform was in bad need of cleaning; his tunic lay on the floor; his pants remained on him, and carried various alcohol stains. His bed was ravaged, the sheets torn from it. The rest of the room was in a relative state of clarity: he didn't have many belongings that would clutter it up, really. Most of what he had carried with him had gone up when his carrier had been hit at Grenadine before being able to jump into hyperspace. The only really personal item which remained was an image of his wife and child on his dresser.  
After three years with the Rebellion, Veradun figured that he had gotten used to loss, used to going up against an enemy that seemed to have every conceivable advantage. The only problem was that he was beginning to realize that that was exactly the problem. He was used to it. He didn't like seeing his men die and he did not like losing, but to his surprise, he did not really care emotionally anymore. He felt as if the war had finally desensitized him to horror. Fighting for the galaxy's freedom was no longer something he was emotionally invested in. He felt like a small piece of machinery in some huge juggernaut, just doing the job that it had been built for. He stared at the near empty bottle of booze for a few minutes, pondering that.   
  
Veradun had been wondering for a long time what it was that was gnawing him about the battle of Grenadine. Now he finally realized what it was: he felt no sorrow whatsoever. In realizing he was a number, he realized that everyone else was a number. It made feeling sorry for them when they made a mistake that much harder, but made fighting that much easier to do. This epiphany of sorts had not turned him into a mechanical soldier, and it wouldn't make him care any less about the people fighting for him. He could still enjoy himself in the Officers Club, could still function like a normal human being. Veradun had just gotten rid of something that had been weighing him down, and that would let him function as a better soldier. Still, he wondered at this development. Sure, it made him a better piece of the juggernaut, a more effective cog in the machine. But on the other hand, he felt this inability to feel sorrow was somehow horrible, as horrible as it was wonderful.   
  
Veradun considered that losing a part of oneself was not as traumatic as the holos made it out to be. Lose an arm and you felt a sharp pain, then a dull sense of the inability to feel a part of oneself anymore. Lose a feeling, you felt that same sharp pain, then that same dull sense as you wonder what could be missing. That first sharp pain had to have hit him a while ago, for he'd had this sense for a while now. The feeling had surfaced before Grenadine, and perhaps even some time before that. He guessed that he must have just lost track of it among all the other shots of pain that had hit him over the past several years. It was getting hard to keep track.   
  
The pilot flopped back on his bed, letting go of the bottle he still gripped. It bounced to the floor, rolling away to rest against the door. The Major was tired of having to give up parts of himself, but they needed him again. This operation was going to fill up the daily casualty reports, that much he was sure of. Still, it was necessary, and as a soldier and a loyal cog in the machine, he would do his best to make sure that everything went as planned. The Alliance needed victories, ones that went beyond Death Stars. You did what you had to do for your cause.  
  
Staring up at his ceiling, Veradun sighed. He missed his wife, somewhere in Wild Space on some Safe World. He hadn't seen her for over a year now, and even though he knew she understood, he couldn't help but feel that he was losing another part of himself, if it wasn't already gone.  
  
  
In another cabin, on another part of the ship, one could almost smell the anticipation mixing with the cigarra smoke. Colonel Trell Jorser had finally been handed the mission he had been asking for. This mission that would prove the Alliance was capable of a sustained offensive against overwhelming enemy force, on its own terms. He chuckled to himself as he contemplated the coming job he had to do. They would be moving in fast and hard against the Imperials, not giving them a chance to fight the battle in a regular stand up fashion. Lightning guerilla warfare, neutralizing main enemy positions before they even had a chance to roll out the big guns, the technology that could rip the Alliance forces apart. The Colonel inhaled deeply on his cigarra, wondering if the Imperials even had an idea of what was coming.  
  
The Colonel had developed into something of a cynical being over the years; it was a survival mechanism. He had once trusted the orders of his superiors above everything, because they were Alliance commanders. There was no way, he had once thought, that they could possibly go wrong. Incompetence in the upper ranks was something that only the Imperials had to deal with. He had quickly learned the error of that judgment in some of the early battles he had fought in, back when he was merely a Sergeant. Those errors in judgment lead to massive casualties, and casualties led to promotion for those who were smart enough to survive. Jorser had gone from Sergeant to Captain in just a year, and from that position to Colonel in only two years. The Colonel had learned to trust in the guerilla tactics of the Alliance. He knew without a doubt that frontal warfare was suicide for the Alliance, and was therefore naturally suspicious of any movement that went against regular Alliance Military doctrine.  
  
This particular campaign had sent off warning beacons in his brain immediately. An assault against a heavily guarded Imperial system that relied primarily on ground forces just sounded like the kind of tactics which had gotten so many beings killed in the early years. After General Madine's briefing, the Colonel was still cautious. He was absolutely sure this was going to get a significant portion of his men killed. But it would work. It would be costly, but it would be even more costly for the enemy, if it went on schedule. Of course, he was absolutely sure it would not go as planned. No plan that the Colonel had ever laid out or followed had ever gone as it was supposed to. It was schedules that made or killed an offensive.   
  
The only thing which threatened to ruin the Colonel's good mood was the feeling that he had been chalked up as expendable for the powers that be. At forty-two, he was about middle age for a Mon Cal; their life spans ran about the same as humans on average, if not longer. He was an old man compared to many of the commanders, looked at as a liability of sorts. Puffing on his cigarra, he reflected that he had never been entirely liked by the brass, though in the Alliance it had not been because of his species. The Colonel knew that he was looked at as more dangerous than the Imperials: he often broke standing orders so that he would be able to bring his people to a more effective combat position. This had endeared him to General Madine, a great believer in unorthodox tactics and the art of freeform tactical combat, but had gained him a great deal of enemies in High Command.  
  
It was almost certain that this is what had gained him the dubious honor of Point Recon. The Rancor's Teeth Battalion was going in first, five days ahead of the rest of the fleet, to neutralize several enemy hard points and set up landing fields, forward bases and ammo dumps for the main invasion force. They were the whipping boys: everything that hit them would be recorded by intelligence spy-ships and transmitted back to Fleet. By the time the main invasion force dropped in, they would know the Imperial forces on the outermost planet and its moons better than the Imperials knew themselves. The only problem was that this meant almost certain heavy casualties for the three companies under the Colonel's command.   
  
Had his years of refusing to just follow his orders doomed this entire battalion's contingent of young people? Jorser shook that thought away; he had saved countless lives by his actions in the past. Besides, someone had to go on Point Recon, and if it had to be the Rancor's Teeth, then it had to be them. Still, it seemed that a battalion with a large veteran contingent would have made more sense in the long run. Or maybe, just maybe, they actually trusted him. The Colonel refused to give that theory much credence; he didn't even trust himself that much. Still, they had basically trusted the success of this mission with his unit. Maybe someone had signed him up for an early retirement, but if they had, Madine would have had to approve it. That meant that there was a chance, however unlikely, that Madine thought that Jorser had a chance of bringing this off, without massive casualties. The general never wasted men, and that one thought gave Jorser an assurance he had not felt for a long time.  
  
Then again, maybe he was just overthinking this. His job was to go down there and kill the Imperials. Beings would die, but they would die for a reason. Some historian could say whether that reason was any good a few decades down the line, Jorser decided. This was all academic anyway, until he hit the field of battle. He would construct his overall plans, then drop in and take it from there. At the very least, Point Recon gave him almost complete freedom to improvise.  
  
What was truly bothering the Mon Calamari was his friend, Major Veradun. It seemed that they had taken different paths in dealing with the overwhelming losses their commands had suffered over the course of the past year. Veradun seemed to be experiencing something that most soldiers experienced at one point or another. They called it combat fatigue, but it really was a complete desensitization to the horrors of warfare. It had hit Jorser early on in his career; it tended to prey on the infantry more aggressively than it did on those more removed from the violence of war. It could almost be seen as a survival mechanism that the mind had developed to prevent some kind of an overload. The only problem was that it proved self-destructive over the long term; one stopped being able to function outside of a combat environment. Not that that was a horrible thing, Jorser reflected, grinning. In fact, he was almost certain that several generals he knew would pay millions of credits to find a way to synthesize the effects of combat fatigue.   
  
But the inability to exist after war was a price that he was unwilling to pay, and he knew that Veradun would find himself paying in full if he did not change. The man had both a wife and a child; if Veradun continued down the path he seemed to be treading, he would come home a man changed almost to the point of being unrecognizable. It was not Jorser's job to discourage him, however: the Colonel did not believe in meddling in such things, even in the case of his few friends. If one did not come upon renewal and salvation through ones own efforts, then that salvation would be bittersweet, and the renewal only temporary. That was the way the Colonel had always gone about his life, and he bore both the scars and the rewards that had come from it. Besides, the Colonel was an opportunist when it came to these situations. Veradun could be of assistance in this offensive, especially in this new state. Maybe the Fates would decree that some event during this campaign would change Veradun for the better. "Heh... the Fates," Jorser mumbled, inhaling the last bit of his cigar,   
  
"Well... stranger things have happened."  
  
The colonel moved to put the cigar out and got up from his seat, shaking off the remnants of his hangover. He'd always wondered about the miracles of Mon Calamari metabolism, its joys and its curses. It took an ocean of drinks to cause the Colonel to become even slightly drunk, but the headaches he suffered afterwards... even industrial strength painkillers did not quell them. Perhaps some higher power just didn't want Mon Calamari drunk, and therefore had made it so that it was nearly impossible for them to do so. As he stepped into the refresher, let its systems clean off the remnants of alcohol on his body and readied himself for the day ahead, he reflected on the joys of drinking, and how most of his young soldiers had recently discovered them. The MPs would be having the time of their lives prying the soldiers of the Alliance out of every cheap hotel, booze joint and alley on that planet.   
  
Then there would be the fabled last call, and every being down there wearing the Alliance insignia would be rushing for the last few shuttles back to the Fleet. Ah, to be young again... well, regret was for the dead, and Jorser did not intend on being dead for a bit longer. Not until he discovered a way to get rid of these damn headaches, patented it, and got rich off of a drink emporium/drugstore somewhere on his homeworld.   
  
Jorser switched off the refresher and stepped back into his cabin, feeling rejuvenated. A new day was coming, and he was ready for what it would require of him. Well, never ready; nobody was ever really truly ready for anything. Thinking differently was fooling oneself, and the Colonel did not have time for self-illusion. Rather, he felt he had a chance, however slim, of being able to handle the problems that were going to start piling up the second he stepped out of this room and started talking to his company commanders. Starting with getting his soldiers cleaned and assembled in less than a day, then ready for the assault in less than a week, he had a busy schedule to attend to.  
  
The Mon Cal slipped on his uniform with the ease of second nature, then stopped for a second in front of the mirror above his dresser. Stunningly handsome, he thought, if growing a bit old. He often marveled that humans could consider him ugly, but then again, he marveled that he hadn't been elected to replace Mon Mothma as Chairbeing of the Rebel Alliance High Council yet.   
  
As he stepped out of his cabin and into the ship's hallway, he reflected that wonders might never cease.  
  
  
The Twi'lek lieutenant awoke rather groggily as a beam of sunlight broke through the cheap blinds of the motel to settle on her face. She moaned unhappily, not wanting to get up; she had definitely drunk too much the previous night, and had the headache to show for it. Not to mention that her uniform was probably a mess now, after she had just paid to have it cleaned a few days ago. Derai Mol'shik rolled over to the side to get out of the sunlight... right into the other occupant of the bed. Her eyes widened to find that her pilot was still there, sleeping soundly next to her. She had thought that part of the night was a dream of some sort, and that her friends had just carried her here to let her sleep off her intoxication.   
  
Her mind raced furiously as she stared at his face, still blissfully unaware of the morning. This kind of thing didn't happen to her! She was always, always in control; it was the only thing that gave her any certainty in life. Derai Mol'shik had a plan for her life, and it certainly did not involve sleeping with random pilots she met. If she slept with men, she wanted it to be for a reason, not just because they were there. Even if they were handsome, she admitted; that was at least one thing. Still, this was wrong; she did not have time for a relationship right now and she did not have time for the problems that would arise even if she did not end up in a relationship with this pilot. This was all Visha's fault for forcing her to have fun.  
  
Derai stopped herself and just smiled. That last thought had sounded silly even to her in her frantic state. This was her fault for getting drunk and not knowing how to handle it. Well, it was the pilot's fault too, and she'd have to beat the crap out of him for taking advantage of her in her weakened state. Or at least make him feel as guilty as humanly possible. That sounded good.  
  
As she lay there staring at him, she wondered if she really had done this for no reason, if this whole situation really was all the results of too much to drink. She knew that she had had the ability to think last night, and had had the ability to reason up to a point. She had definitely had all her reason about her when Visha came up to her with that drink. Derai knew that she could have said no, could have just sat there at the bar nursing her drink while everyone else got stinking drunk. She could almost hear Visha's admonishment about that one... that just wouldn't be any fun. Though Derai had to wonder if this really could be defined as fun. She had felt happy in some strange way the previous night, but did not know if that had been actual happiness, or just the absence of loneliness.  
  
Derai had long felt alone, even in the packed confines of the various ships she had been stationed on as SpecForce Marine personnel. She had friends, she had people surrounding her all the time, but she felt as if no one was actually with her. Derai was just 19 years old, scarcely older than the men and women under her command. She often wondered if it made sense to put her in charge. She was not anymore experienced than the soldiers under her command, and she could not think of anything that made her more qualified than they were. She had spent some time at a University, had shown some leadership skills in basic training, and that had made some superior think that she had what it took for Officer Candidacy School. The only problem was that she was now separated from the rest of her unit by some invisible line that only soldiers could see.  
  
These were people who she could have been a friend with out in the real world, the outside. Here, she had been taught that things were different, and they were different for a reason. If she went out and drank with the beings under her command, if she became friends with them, then she would be unable to distance herself from them during combat. If that happened, then sending them off to die would be that much harder. Of course, this policy that had existed in militaries for eons caused a natural rift between officers and enlisted. The enlisted men and women looked at her and all her kind as hostile in some way, as people who would never understand what it was like to be a grunt. Derai did not know if that was true, but it did not really matter to her. She did what she was supposed to do, and tried her best to serve competently. But the position left her cut off from people who could be her friends, if she just did not wear a little rank insignia on her shoulder. So she found friends wherever she could in the officer corps, and ended up with people who were not necessarily anything at all like her.  
  
Derai just missed having people to talk to, having friends who were in some way like her. Visha and some of the other girls were nice, but seemed more concerned with having fun than in talking about anything of real importance. But Derai had discovered that having any friends, any companionship at all, was preferable to being alone. Alone was a place she didn't need to be during a conflict where losing her life was a very real possibility. If she was hit, if she was wounded and spent a few weeks in the hospital fading in and out of consciousness, she wanted to wake up to friendly faces. She did not care whose faces they were; she just did not want the only other thing in the room to be a medical droid. After a mission, she wanted to be able to talk to someone, even if she never mentioned what she had really felt during the mission. Just the very act of being able to speak to another person made her feel more at ease in her position.  
  
So, in trying to allay her fears and loneliness, she had ended up in this bed with a pilot she barely knew. She wanted to feel angry, but she knew that they had both come here with the same purpose; there was a very good chance that this fighter pilot, this Wes Janson, was just as afraid as she was. He would never admit it, just like she would never admit to why she had done this, but all the soldiers on this planet, regardless of rank or branch of service, were very similar beings in the way they thought. They all were far from home, in an unfamiliar territory laden with minefields. They were a generation that needed guidance, guidance that their elders could not give any more, as they were just as lost as the young people who they were leading.   
  
A tear streaked down Derai's face as she continued to stare at the pilot's face. The age of innocence had ended when the Old Republic died. They were now in a new age, an age of loneliness. She supposed she would see that term in some history pamphlet thirty years from now, if she lived till then. You found the warmth of another being when you could, and you lived without until those brief moments of contentment. In a sense, they were fighting to survive long enough to experience as many of those brief moments as they possibly could. Derai wondered if that was what made her generation unique from others, if that was their signature trait. They all seemed to be on an almost frantic search for others in the same state. The people of her generation had found a purpose. Now they just needed someone to tell them that everything would be ok, and everyone would go back to normal when this was all over.  
  
After making sure her face was clear of any tears, Derai resolved to wake her companion. A gentle shove from her hand was enough to stir the pilot from his slumber. Janson's eyes slowly opened, then widened as they came to rest on her face. He blinked once in surprise, wondering if he was still dreaming. Derai just grinned at him, deciding that she might as well be graceful about it.  
  
"You're still here?!?" he asked surprised.  
  
"That's a nice way to greet me, flyboy," Derai stated simply  
  
"I'm sorry, I guess I just didn't expect you to still be here... you are SpecForce after all," he replied, still a little surprised.  
Derai hand came around to contact with his cheek, quickly waking him up, as well as knocking out any more stupid comments.   
  
"Ok, I deserved that. Let me try that again: I guess I kind of thought I was being used; I barely remember all of last night," Janson tried again.  
  
"Welcome to the club, Wes. I think we kind of used each other... do you even remember my name?" Derai asked, sitting up in the bed, having discovered that she was still wearing her undergarments.  
  
"I barely remember my own name. But yeah, Derai; I'm not a hotshot flyboy who jumps from woman to woman," he replied.  
  
"Wait a second... did you think I was some Marine with a man in every port or something?" the lieutenant questioned, surprised.  
  
"The answer to this better not get me slapped," Janson stated, smiling sheepishly.  
  
"It won't... probably," she assured him.  
  
"Well, the thought had crossed my mind. Maybe we both kind of stereotyped each other. You just seemed so sure of yourself," the pilot explained.  
  
"Wait a second... let me see something," she mused, then tossed the sheets back.  
  
"Hey, don't... wha... we're still wearing our clothes... well, most of them," Janson observed, surprised.  
  
"Do you actually remember us sleeping together last night?"   
  
"Well, we did sleep with each other, unless you're just a hallucination, and I'm dead," the pilot replied.  
  
"Save the snappy comebacks for another time, flyboy: I don't remember sleeping with you. I remember coming in here, I remember foreplay... and then it's just blank," Derai stated.  
  
"That's strange... same here. Don't tell me I got a beautiful woman into a cheap hotel, and then passed out!" Janson exclaimed.  
  
"What, this was some kind of goal?"  
  
"No, but the moment this little misadventure gets out, I'm never gonna hear the end of it from Wedge, Hobbie and Scotian."  
  
"You think I'm gonna brag about this? Visha would love this. I don't want to spend the next operation hearing references to this on the radio every time I have to call B for Besh Company," Derai replied.  
  
"So we just get our shirts on, and walk away, never mentioning this again, right?" Wes asked.  
  
"Well, you could call me if we're ever stationed together, and we could go out for a drink sometime, you know," she replied, mock offended.  
  
"Heh, sorry, I'm just shooting out stupid comments like proton torpedoes... we can switch off contact addresses. Of course, the chances of us ever seeing each other are slim...," he began.  
  
"Hey, you had your chance last night. If that becomes a 'we better make the most of our time together' line, I'm going to slug you," Derai pointed out.  
  
"No, no, no! I was just going to say that the chances for a relationship aren't the greatest in the Alliance. I don't even know if we have anything in common," Wes explained.  
  
"Hey, I'm not asking to get engaged, flyboy. I just thought we could grab coffee sometime. I think I'll avoid booze around you, though."  
  
"Tell me about it. Alright, it's a date. Next time I get some leave time and you're in the area, I'll give you a call."  
  
"Good enough, Janson. I did have a nice night, though, when I wasn't throwing up."  
  
"Wait, you were throwing up too? I just thought you had some kind of crazy tolerance with alcohol," the pilot stated, surprised.  
  
"Again with the gross stereotypes... of course, I was thinking the same about you. If you want a girl who can hold her liquor, talk to Visha, that Wroonian lieutenant who broke your friends heart," Derai suggested.  
  
"No, I think I'll stick with women who can't outdrink me. Now, who gets to shower first? I'm thinking they'll want us at the ship ASAP, and I'd rather not miss the last shuttle out of here," Janson asked.  
  
"Haven't you ever heard of ladies first?"  
  
"Yeah, but I wasn't sure how it applied to this situation, Derai."  
  
"Oh, it applies in every situation, silly," she stated, then kissed him gently on the forehead and got up to go to the bathroom, "No peeking though; like I said before, you had your chance last night."  
  
"I thought this was supposed to be a gender-neutral society! We're not supposed to care about being naked in front of each other," Janson tried.  
  
"No dice, flyboy. See you in fifteen."  
  
Derai winked at him, suddenly much happier as she closed the door to the bathroom. It seemed like this was an easy out, but she figured she had one coming to her. He was right, she probably would never see him again, but she kind of hoped she would. The guy did seem nice enough, had a good sense of humor, and he was pretty handsome. Short though, but that was not surprising as far as pilots went. Just as long as she had a choice in the matter, though, she would have been happy even if he were some multi-tentacle alien. She grinned, wondering what he was thinking about her, as she turned on the shower. It would be nice to enjoy some real water, rather than the sonic waves of the shipboard refreshers.  
  
  
Waking up in the city detention center was a tried and true ritual among soldiers, dating back for eons. When Vaeisto awoke that morning to find Reifi passed out on top of him, and a dozen other Alliance soldiers and locals in similar situations, he was not incredibly surprised. He did know, however, that this would not look exactly spectacular on his record. Not that it mattered entirely much; the Alliance made some allowances as for the rambunctious behavior of its troopers. This kind of event was almost expected, if officially discouraged. Vaeisto just wished that this hadn't happened before shipping out. He did not feel he needed the aggravation of a dressing down from his platoon officer before going off to whatever piece of floob world they were going to land on.  
  
Reifi groaned, signaling that she had finally broken into consciousness. He was surprised she had recovered as quickly as he had; she'd gone down hard when that magistrate brought a stun baton to her head. Not to mention the added effects of the massive quantities of booze the two had sucked down. Vaeisto idly wondered if it was possible that he might still be intoxicated. The fact of the matter was that after that adventure last night, he had expected to be drunk for the next couple weeks, at the very least. His savings were gone now, as well, turned into liquid form over the course of the night. That had been planned, however; he did not want to have a few hundred credits left in his safe when he died. They would not be of any assistance to anyone if he died, so he figured they might as well be of assistance to him while he lived. His parents had more than enough money, his sister was doing well off at some University in the Tion Hegemony, and he didn't feel like contributing to the vices of any living squadmates. A savings account did not exactly seem like the greatest of ideas either, because he did not know if he even had a future where savings would be needed  
  
So, the few credits the Alliance paid him went to entertainment purposes before shipping off to the various exotic locales that he got to 'vacation' on in the course of his tenure with the SpecForce Marines. People always wondered why soldiers were so poor, despite making a steady income deriving from a government of some time. Vaeisto could easily explain why now: a singular philosophy seemed to attach itself to all of them, at least the ones he knew. If you were going to die, you might as well live life to the fullest before dropping out. Fatalistic, yes, but being realistic about the odds of life and death was the only way one could stop from going insane or worrying to the point of being a coward.  
  
"Ugh... where am I?" Reifi questioned, blinking, staring up.  
  
"One of the most beautiful resorts on the planet, darling. We'll hit the shockball courts in a few minutes, after the steward fetches us breakfast," Vaeisto replied.  
  
"Wonderful. Tell him to bring me less of a wiseguy of a dining companion," Reifi shot back, still not removing herself from on top of him.  
  
"Wish I could, since that would mean I could leave this wonderful accomadations. You ok? You took a pretty bad couple of hits last night," Vaeisto checked, then continued, "Uh, mind getting off me?"  
  
"Your concern is touching, Mik. Yeah, give me a second. I think any movement is going to cause my head to cave in on me," she answered, collecting herself for her movement.  
  
"Eh, it's ok; the half of my body you're lying on is numb anyway; you can just stay if you like," Vaeisto assured her.  
  
"Well, the MPs should be along to grab us in a few minutes anyway, I'm guessing. So, sure, if you don't mind," Reifi accepted.  
  
"Uh-huh. I kind of wish we hadn't picked that fight with those Gotal techs; that one threw a mean left hook," Vaeisto mused.  
  
"Yeah; though we could've taken 'em if that magistrate van hadn't pulled up. I don't think they really needed to be that prejudicial with the stun batons."  
  
"True. I wonder if they've ever heard the term excessive force applied to them."  
  
"Probably not. Whoever wanted to say it to them was probably already unconscious before he could get the words out," Reifi said, paused, then went on, "You know, this is your fault."  
  
"What?!?" Mik questioned, rather loudly. He momentarily regretted that exclamation, as his head reached new levels of throbbing. The chorus of groans from around him proved that he wasn't the only one.   
  
"If you weren't so noble, we wouldn't be waking up here," Reifi pointed out.  
  
"You know us miner boys; we just can't help but be courteous, and try to get to know a girl before we sleep with her. It's a tragic flaw," Vaeisto admitted, a sarcastic drawl entering his voice.  
  
"I guess that's what happens when you grow up on a backwater, hick planet."  
  
"Maybe. Maybe it's conditioning. All the girls in my town wanted to get married first. Including the girl I ran away from."  
  
A bark of laughter issued from Reifi, who quickly realized her mistake, grasping her head in pain. Still, she continued with the inquiry she was about to make. "What, they were gonna force you to marry her at blasterpoint or something? Got her pregnant after a roll in the hay, then ran off to join the Rebellion?" Reifi questioned, a grin on her face.  
  
"No; actually, she was the very definition of waiting until marriage: much to my dismay, I couldn't even get under her sweater. No, we went out for a while, but then one day she started mentioning how all our friends were getting married, and how she couldn't wait till she was married. Then she started dropping more obvious hints. I ignored them as best I could. Then one day, she out and out asks me why I haven't asked her to marry me yet. I stammer for a few minutes, and then I propose. She of course accepted... and the next day I was on the first shuttle out," Mik explained.  
  
"You just left her hanging like that, probably planning with her friends what she was going to wear to the wedding? That's horrible!" Reifi exclaimed, quietly this time, though a grin couldn't help but sneak onto her face.  
  
"It's not like I didn't like her. It's just that she represented life on that planet. I'd be living there for the rest of my life, have the same friends my entire life, never going more than a few hundred meters away from the town, unless a new mine opened up somewhere. It's a little silly, I'll admit, when you look at what other people are here for, but it's a reason," Vaeisto admitted.  
  
"Yeah, some people had their families burned down, some are fighting because the Empire destroyed their planet, others are fighting for the greater good of the universe. Mik Vaeisto fights for freedom... from some poor miners daughter who is probably still crying about him running away from her," Reifi contemplated, grinning widely.  
  
"Well, my sister got away on a scholarship to some university; I didn't see why she should have all the luck. And I didn't want to join the Imperial Army; my parents had always taught me they were bad for anyone who wanted even the slightest degree of independence. My parents weren't the most enlightened people in the world, but they didn't like the idea of being told what to do by anyone, especially some faceless government. So here I am," Vaeisto finished, shrugging.  
  
"You ever going back?" Reifi asked absently, staring up at the gray, duracrete ceiling.  
  
"Maybe. After I muster out, either after the war, or in four years, whichever comes first, I might visit them. The way the war's going, I'm guessing the four years will come first," Vaeisto replied.  
  
"You think you'll get married to your miner's daughter girlfriend after returning a triumphant hero who's seen the galaxy. Then get a job at the mine, raise fat, healthy babies and live the rest of your life telling enormously exaggerated stories about your tour of duty with the SpecForce Marines?" Reifi pondered.  
  
"I doubt she'll wait for me that long. There are a few other boys the village who I'm sure would be happy to take my place. As for settling down... no, I don't think I'll be able to do that. I may have discovered that this might have been the wrong way to see the galaxy, but I still want to stay out here. I might just reenlist with the Alliance, in a non-combat position of some sort. After a tour of duty with the Marines is on my record, I doubt they'd refuse the request."  
  
"Warrior tourists...," Reifi murmured.  
  
"Huh? What did you just say?"   
  
"Oh, just a sudden thought.... I guess I just kind of see us as a bunch of warrior tourists. A bunch of people who wanted to fight for a cause and see the galaxy piece by piece at the same time. So we go around with a blaster rifle in one arm and a holorecorder in the other, so that we can say we did something in our lives, and then tell our kids about it in a few decades."  
  
"Heh, guess I never really saw it that way. Though you're right, I've got a picture of every place I've been stationed at so far. Intelligence always makes sure that none of the pictures contain sensitive data, of course, but still... it's almost kind of perverse. Like we're taking advantage of the chaos so we can finally see some excitement."  
  
"Don't feel too bad, kid. You're not the only one. I'm the same way; it was why I was with that militia before I joined the Rebellion; when the Alliance offered to take us on, since our little force didn't have much of a chance against the Imperials, I just followed along. I've at least resisted the urge to collect souviniers from battlezones."  
  
"Reifi, I gotta tell you, I don't particularly relish the idea of giving my life up because I wanted to get out on my own," Mik stated.  
  
"It's ok, kid, I feel the same way. Probably the rest of the Alliance does too. Well, just remember what my Drill Instructor once told me."  
  
"And what was that?"  
  
"Remember your training, and you will make it back alive. I figure that if I hold to that little piece of advice, I at least have a seventy five percent chance of surviving this. Or an artillery shell could randomly slam into me, proving me wrong. Either way, at least I died thinking I had a chance, and that's really all the officers can hope for as far as morale goes."  
  
"Sounds like a good idea to me. Ignorance is bliss kind of thing, I guess."  
  
"Maybe not his original intent, but close enough. You know, kid, you aren't as stupid as you act. I might end up liking you."  
  
"Wow, if you didn't like me yesterday, I can't wait to see what it's like when you like me."  
  
"Much less exciting, I'm afraid. You'd actually have to work in order to go out with me."  
  
"Well, that would be a problem if I were interested in you romantically. Sadly, that's not the case. I actually agreed with what you said yesterday, about not getting involved with your squadmates. It's like incest or something."  
  
"What, I remind you of your sister?" Reifi reproached him.  
  
"No, not at all... it's just that you were right. Relationships are inherently dangerous on the battlefield. Look me up when I'm out of this company."  
  
"Great, I had to meet a guy who actually agreed with me. Well, now you won't have anyone to kiss you in your dying moments if you get hit on the battlefield and are lying there bleeding on the ground."  
  
"I'm sure Te'chun will oblige me. Otherwise, I'll just have to take the risk."  
  
"Your loss, kid; I just hope the MPs come and pick us up soon...," Reifi wished absently.  
  
The sound of Alliance issue combat boots on the duracrete floor seemed to immediately grant Reifi's hope. Vaeisto grinned and pushed himself up after Reifi pulled herself to a standing position. Soon the entire cell was erect, except for the one or two locals who remained in their prone positions. A moment later an Alliance lieutenant in the uniform of the military police walked into the detention area with two enlisted guards behind him. A local magistrate officer accompanied him, smiling slightly. The government of the colony was making a tidy sum off of the reparations that Alliance was making, and the officer knew it. The Alliance MP officer rubbed his temples, wishing that this duty hadn't fallen to him; he hated having to speak to these smug locals who refused to take a part in the galactic struggle, but who were more than happy to take the Alliance's money. The worst part was that there was still quite a bit of mopping up to do over the course of the day.  
  
"Alright, soldiers, I'm gonna make this short, because there are quite a few more detention centers to hit before my job is complete. You're all docked a week's pay, and will receive reprimands on your permanent records. Of course, I doubt it really matters to any of you, since most of us don't plan on making a Rebellion our permanent career. Still, said reprimand will most likely affect your requests for transfer and leave over the course of your career here, until you can get it removed. Since the reason I'm down here rounding you up instead of leaving you in a prison on this planet while the fleet leaves is that there's an op planned. You'll get plenty of chances to clean your records then. That's all I'm authorized to tell you. Now, since we've paid the locals for the damages caused, plus some, you're all free to go... into the shuttles that are leaving in a half hour. The launch pads are about four klicks from here, but if you hurry you should make it. That is all," the officer stated, and then motioned to the magistrate officer.  
  
The local moved to the detention cell's barred door and opened it with a swipe of a key. The Alliance members detained within filed out as respectably as they could, then made a beeline for the detention center's exit. They had to make those shuttles, as they did not want to be stuck on this planet, or force the Alliance to make a second trip. Either occasion would not bode well for them, so they had decided immediately upon hearing the officer's words to not doubt them for a second. There was always a chance it was a lie to convince them to run four kilometers in their debilitated state, but the soldiers had long ago learned not to take chances as far as MPs were concerned.   
  
Reifi winked at Vaeisto as she ran, only occasionally wincing from a new onset of headaches. The exercise was at the very least allowing them to slightly recover from the night's exercise in debauchery.   
"Twenty credits says I can beat you to the shuttles," Reifi stated as she ran next to Vaeisto.  
  
"Since I'm forfeiting my pay on your account, I'll need the money. You're on," Vaeisto replied, grinning.  
  
"Hey, I thought we were of the understanding that this was your fault, and yours alone, kid," she replied, then broke off into a flat sprint. Vaeisto hurried after, putting all the energy he could into his legs. They tried their best to focus on anything that didn't involve the mission they would soon be set upon. Mindless exercise is another great friend of the soldier.  
  
  
  
Paperwork, and lots of it, the bane of every First Sergeant, had piled high since Sergeant "Saber" Helteran had walked into his office on the Frigate Tribulation that morning. First came the paperwork dealing with the fifteen or so new recruits assigned to C for Cresh Company, who had just arrived on a troop ship from some Alliance training world this morning. Then came even more paperwork dealing with the various reprimands handed out to half the enlisted beings in the company for various minor offenses the night before. Drunk and disorderlies... a few minor assaults... of course the requisite solicitations of prostitutes... defamation of private and public property... public urination... yeah, that sounded about right for most of these troops first leave before a huge op went down. The only problem was that their night of trying to convince themselves they were the best and the bravest meant an excessive amount of paperwork for their First Sergeant.  
  
Nobody ever seemed to think of Helteran, though, until he chewed them out the following day for loading him up with work when he had more important things to take care of. This was always true, of course; a First Sergeant's work, as far as paper is concerned, is never, ever done. But with only a week to go before the op launched... weapons requisition request forms, supply requisition request forms, veteran troop request forms, every conceivable form of bureaucratic red tape piled up on Helteran's desk. Not to say that the man was purely possessed of a desk job, of course. If the officers were the brains of C for Cresh Company, Helteran was the heart. Not that he loved his job, or loved his company, but he kept everything flowing in order, as a good heart does. A good First Sergeant was what kept a company running, was what kept it from collapsing under its own weight. Helteran had enough experience in combat and non-combat duties to basically advise the officers as to what to do in any contingency, and to manipulate the system so that C for Cresh got the best gear and grub that it was possible to obtain.   
  
This was not going to be an easy hop, for quite a few reasons. First, he had just learned this morning that he would have only one week to prepare, rather than the two weeks that he had originally been informed of. It went to figure, really; the day after he had organized everything to fall perfectly into the two-week deadline, they saddled him up with new instructions. The officers did not have any clue as to what went on behind the scenes when they made a deadline change like that; of course, it wasn't their job to know. Their job was to lead, to present the face of authority to the enlisted punks, to look good in their uniforms, while Helteran and the rest of the sergeants took care of making sure that everything didn't collapse under the officer's feet. Helteran wasn't resentful of this fact, though, because he knew that it was the way it had to be. He wouldn't have it any other way, in fact. He liked doing his job, liked the absolute reliance the officers and soldiers had on him. If he ever stopped doing his job, chaos would break loose, and the company would cease to function as a cohesive unit, or any unit for that matter.   
  
The Sergeant wondered if he'd even be able to survive after the war, or whenever he was discharged from the SpecForce Marines. Sure, he'd probably make a good bureaucrat, or some corporate stooge working on spreadsheets and datapoints all day. But it would drive Helteran insane, he was sure of it. He was a soldier, and the one thing that offered him was constant change, constant new obstacles to overcome. In some corporate office or government cubicle, he would be facing the same things day in and day out, the same drudgery, with no conceivable change. The same fear faced him even if he didn't get a job after the war; if he just spent thirty years in the Marines, then retired with a pension, he did not know if he could handle just sitting around in the old soldier's home. He figured that the day he retired, he might as well just put a blaster into his mouth and pull the trigger. The Marines were Helteran's lifeline; the day he was cut off from it, he might as well have been dead.  
  
The second problem the Sergeant faced was getting the soldiers ready in any fashion for the coming operation. They were mostly new recruits, fresh out of boot. He had no idea how they'd handle under battle conditions, or how they would react to having to survive in conditions far from any bases. Helteran's battalion was going in alone, and he did not know whether the soldiers could handle that. The third problem was the gear he had been issued. He needed cold weather gear, cold weather tents and gear to cut out a forward base from the ground in deep snow and ice conditions. He had so far been issued a fraction of the equipment his company needed, and it would take all his expertise to get enough new gear for the company to survive in the somewhat adverse conditions they were about to go into. Helteran sighed; it was time to go out and start scrounging.  
  
The sergeant got up from his desk and grabbed his cover, then headed for the door. He nodded to his clerk, a Givin Corporal named Cray, and ordered, "I'll be out for an hour or so, four at the max; I want those reprimand papers filled out, the permanent records changed accordingly, and the papers for the supplies done by the time I get back. Got that?"  
  
The Givin groaned at that; it was more adept at working numbers than this requisitions nonsense. Still, it replied with a "Yes Sergeant" and got back to work; chances were that it wouldn't be able to get all the work done in time, but it could at least try.  
  
An inexperienced NCO would have made his way to the supply officer on board, and try and reason with him or her for what he needed. Helteran was far from inexperienced; he knew he'd get the same song and dance he'd been getting all day; a few dozen more requisitions forms to fill out, and a reprimand about trying to go around the proper channels. Rather, Helteran made a beeline for the Tribulation's hangar bay. He needed a dozen industrial strength fusion cutters, plus energy shielding so that they wouldn't act as huge "here we are!" beacons every time the soldiers of C company used them. He needed them fast, and he didn't feel like waiting the week or two that had been described to him by the supply officer. As he walked he placed a quick call on his comlink to the C for Cresh Company supply room on the ship; he figured that he might as well be prepared for the coming exchange.  
  
Entering the hangar, Helteran immediately noticed the Crew Chief, a no-nonsense human female from Chandrila. Her reddish brown hair was curled up in a bun, pressed underneath a Starfighter Command uniform cap. She looked as harried as Helteran felt, constantly shouting out orders to her technicians to get the fighters aboard the frigate ready. The operation was affecting everybody, apparently, but Helteran only cared about how it affected his company. "Hey, Quinla! Don't you still owe me a few hundred off that sabacc game from a month ago?" Helteran shouted in greeting, a huge predatory smile springing across his face.  
  
The Crew Chief was already rubbing her temples before she even turned around. "Can't you see I'm busy here, Arny? I've gotta get these fighters in some kind of shape in less than two weeks, and their pilots have been putting them through more battle damage than I even want to think about. How bout you go bother someone else for a change?" she questioned, narrowing her eyes.  
  
"Hey, it's hard all over, Quin. It just so happens I only have a week to get my people ready. You know how they kind of expect the Marines to actually be ready before an operation, while it's ok for you Starfighter command pukes to be ready after it's over," Arny replied.  
  
"I feel for you, really I do; if you came to ask a favor, that was the wrong way to start, Arny," Quin replied, then broke off, "Tune that fusial axis thruster to twenty five percent, Garrison, thirty five! I don't want to spend an hour fixing what you repair!"  
  
"Yes, Chief!" replied the tech, returning to his work, carefully retuning the part.  
  
"I appreciate what you're doing, really I do, Quin; in fact, I appreciate it so much that I'm willing to transfer you a half dozen fine tune, light grade fusion welders. I know how hard those things are to get, how you really need those to patch up the holes the flyboys blow in your fighters and how you're kind of short on them recently," Helteran offered.  
  
"Yeah, sure, Arny; it just so happens that we had a half dozen light grades coming to us, but they were mysteriously transferred to C for Cresh Company, 275th Battalion. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Quinla asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.  
  
"Nah, Quinla, I figure it's just administrative error. Now, while I would love to just give you those light grades... we're kind of short ourselves in a certain department," Helteran broached, still grinning unapologetically.  
  
"Oh, of course, you're just stopped from your philanthropic ways because you love your company too much. Whaddya want, Saber?" the chief conceded, shaking her head sadly, wishing she didn't have to give in to the Sergeant.  
  
"Oh, just twenty industrial grade fusion cutters; it's not like you need 'em anyway: your job is to fix these babies up, not break 'em apart, right?" Helteran reasoned, slapping one of the X-Wings affectionately.  
  
"TWENTY?!? Are you out of your flargin' mind?!? I need those things to break up hull plate armor to patch onto the fighter's hulls! That's half my supply!" she exclaimed, her brown eyes growing wide.  
  
"Yeah, but from what I hear you don't have any welders at all, and you have a good forty industrial fusion cutters," the Sergeant replied, leaning against the nearby X-Wing.  
  
"You heard wrong; I've only got thirty; I could spare you eight, but that's it. Twenty is insane: we'd never get our work done."  
  
"Eight? I can't go back to the company with that. How bout fifteen? I'd be willing to throw in a couple TX-10 power coils... I think we've got a few extra lying around."  
  
"That you probably stole from me, Helteran. You have those welders and those power coils here in an hour, you can have a dozen of the Fusion cutters, and I'll resist the urge to punch you in the face. That's it, you bloodsucker," Quinla fumed, her eyes betraying her urge to murder the First Sergeant. Helteran just grinned and winked, pulling out his comlink.  
  
"An hour won't be necessary," he started, then flipped on the comlink, "Bring 'em in, boys."  
  
Two repulsor trucks rolled in, one carrying the six fusion welders and two power coils, the other empty, accompanied by four Marines from C for Cresh Company. Helteran did nothing but grin, leaning against the X-Wing as his men came in and offloaded the equipment in the bay. The Starfighter Command Crew Chief just stood there, growing redder and redder as Helteran's bearing became more and more insufferable. Her eyes looked like she was consciously willing them to burn holes in Helteran's chest. Realization had instantly dawned on her as the carts came rolling in: she'd managed to bargain Helteran 'down' to exactly what he wanted.  
  
"You... played... me," she managed to get out, trying to compose herself.  
  
"No, I arranged an equitable business arrangement, which you accepted. Mind if those Marines grab the Fusion cutters? We'll just wheel 'em out, and you can go back to tending to your fighters," Helteran replied easily.  
  
"OUT! Get those damn cutters and get out NOW!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs, pointing to the exit of the hangar.  
  
"Much obliged; you're a beautiful young woman, Quin, but you're gonna pop a vein in your forehead if you don't take it easier," the First Sergeant advised, gave her a slight bow, and then exited, the grin seemingly plastered to his face.  
  
Now all that was needed was some cold weather habitats and gear... Arny remembered that the 122nd with the local SecForce had been doing some arctic fighting recently... Arny placed a call to his Givin clerk, "Hey, Cray, get me the name of the ship the 122nd, with SecForce, is berthing on. Then call transport and get me a shuttle over to that ship. And toss the requisitions papers for the fusion cutters: its been taken care of."  
  
"Yessir," came the reply, "You want anything else with that?"  
  
"How bout a clerk who realizes he's never gonna make Sergeant if he mouths off to me?"  
  
"Sir, yes sir!" came the sharper reply this time.  
  
"That's better. Call back with the info in five minutes; I should be in the shuttle bay by then," Arny ordered, then headed back towards the hangar. He had a feeling that Chief Quinla wouldn't be entirely happy to see him, but that was just as well. The Sergeant hadn't gotten in a good shouting match for a long, long time.  
  



End file.
